CHAPTER 24
‘I should go away more often,’ Fabien says, later that night, when I tell him how much we’ve sold from the brocante.
‘No, you shouldn’t!’ I say, joining in with his laughter, just a tiny bit of me worrying that he might have meant it.
‘And do you plan to do it all again?’
‘Yes, I think so. Maybe next Friday. Do you think you could be here?’
‘It’s hard. We’re back in my parents’ town and a lot of people here want to say hello. But I will try.’
‘Okay. What about now? Getting an early night?’
‘A few of us are meeting up, going to a party, after the gig.’
‘A few of us?’
I feel something unpleasant crawl across my skin again. Something I’ve never thought I would feel that is a lot like jealousy. I try to shake it off. I’m an adult in a relationship. Why would I suddenly feel jealous? Or is it guilt? I remember how Henri’s son made me feel when he looked at me tonight, before he humiliated me. The frisson, the teasing, the anger and repulsion we feel for each other. How he held my gaze and my insides melted, like the desserts I was holding. And how stupid I felt when he laughed. He was like a cat playing with a mouse, teasing it, knowing it can squash it with one paw. Well, I’m not going to be squashed and made to feel stupid.
Firmly I say to Fabien, ‘Well, you deserve a good night out.’
Because he does. He’s been working hard. I’m so cross with myself. There’s nothing to feel jealous about, nothing to feel guilty about. It was just a look from a man I’m coming to dislike, even loathe, for what he’s doing to his father’s legacy.
Don’t ask, I tell myself. I look at him on the screen. ‘So, who’s going to be there?’
Damn! I hate myself.
‘Just the band. And some old friends we used to hang out with when we were younger. Now they all have children or divorces and are moving into second-time-around relationships.’ He gives a light laugh. I remember the call of ‘Grandpère’, and teasing him.
I think of my ex-husband Ollie leaving France and starting again with his new partner, having a baby. I had no idea any of it was going on. What if I get hurt again?
‘Fabien …’ Don’t say it. Don’t poke the nest. Don’t say what doesn’t need to be said. ‘You would say, wouldn’t you, if you were unhappy? If you didn’t want “us” any more?’
‘Of course! I mean no! Yes! What? Jesus Christ. Where’s this come from?’
I’m not sure. Why did I have to say that? We rarely get to speak at the moment. Why spoil what time we do have?
‘Look, forget it. I didn’t mean—’
‘Maybe, Del, it’s me who should be worried. Maybe you’re getting tired of our relationship?’
‘No, Fabien. I didn’t mean that.’
‘Why else would you say that?’
I hear the beep of a car horn at his end of the phone.
‘I have to go,’ he says, and I can tell he’s hesitant to hang up.
‘Okay.’ I’m unsure what to say next. I’m cross with myself for rattling the bars of a cage that didn’t need to be rattled. It’s just a party, with friends, one of whom may be Monique. I wish Carine had never sown that seed of doubt. But it wasn’t Carine. It’s me. Thinking that what happened with Ollie will happen again. I’m pushing Fabien away. And I don’t know how to get us back to where we were.
‘If you want me to come home, I will …’
How can I make him do that? It wouldn’t be fair.
‘Go! And have a lovely evening,’ I say.
‘Au revoir, chérie,’ he says, and I wish the words weren’t ringing in my ears as the phone goes dead.
Days pass. Fabien and I swap text messages but don’t really speak. I don’t know how to start the conversation. Somehow the gap between us has widened. All I can do is get ready for Friday night, the supper club, and make sure it’s as good as last week’s. It’s the only thing I can do to get things back to how they were. I’ll put things right with Fabien when he’s home.
I need to focus on cooking. I need to find me again. How can I expect Fabien to come home to me if I’ve lost myself?
I pull out the pan in which Henri always cooked the daube. It’s early morning and the mist has lifted. Ed, Maria, Graham, Keith, Rhi, Jen and Samuel, with a different companion but one I recognize, are heading out into the field with secateurs and sun hats. There is just a week left of the harvest. Two-thirds of the field is cut. This is the final section.
I put the pan on the hob and look at the beef and vegetables I’ve brought back from the town. I picture myself at the brocante, with all the happy faces around me. This is what food does: it makes people happy, makes them feel at home. And that’s how I feel in my kitchen, imagining Henri here, Fabien too, Stephanie, JB and the children. With that, I pick up Henri’s old wooden spoon, take a deep breath and look at the pan. The fog starts to descend again but I push it away with images of the supper club, the ‘sold’ stickers on the furniture, and I know I have to keep going. I turn on the flame and begin to cook. I brown the chunks of beef and smoky pancetta in bubbling butter and oil, set them aside, then soften the onion, carrots, leeks and celery. I add garlic, bay leaves from the garden, tomato purée and stock. I pour in the wine, a whole bottle, loving the sound it makes as it sizzles. There’s parsley to go in and a drop of Henri’s favourite brandy, the smell filling my nostrils and making my mouth water, giving me the nod that I’m heading in the right direction. I season the dish, and sprinkle over the dried lavender. As soon as the familiar aroma reaches my nose, I’m back in the zone and I couldn’t feel happier.
I add the meat to the pan and put it into the oven. Then I fry off the shallots and mushrooms in more butter. I’m nearing the end of the process and I know I’ve finally got back in the saddle. I put the shallots and mushrooms to one side to add later, with a little slaked cornflour, and chop more parsley to garnish. Then I stand back and regard the work surface, mise en place. I hear Henri’s voice, Everything in its place … as it should be, and my heart swells with joy. Life is starting to return to normal.
‘So, that’s the menu. Are we all agreed?’ I say, leaning back in my chair and glancing at the empty plates around the table, wiped clean with baguette. A huge piece of me is back. ‘I’m going to cook Henri’s beef daube,’ I say nervously, hoping I don’t freeze again and it tastes like the daube I’ve just served, with a hint of lavender among the other herbes de Provence. An aromatic mix of thyme, parsley and rosemary. The taste of home. Here. Where I want to stay. A smile pulls at my lips. I intend to fight to do that every step of the way, and feel the fire burning inside me, for me, Fabien, Stephanie, JB and the boys, for our home together.
‘Agreed,’ they all say, including Samuel, who confirms that Henri’s daube is a firm favourite with the locals, and we start to talk about all our other dishes for the menu.
We’re doing Maria’s spiced potatoes and Jen is making a starter of Spanish tapas while Ed’s on desserts. Once again a fusion of flavours, heritages, backgrounds and stories are coming to the table … with a sprinkling of lavender. Samuel is helping Jen with the tapas. Keith is keeping us fuelled with more homemade cakes and biscuits to go with our coffee.
‘Here’s to Friday-night supper club!’
‘I remember when I first went to Spain,’ says Jen, ‘I didn’t even know what tapas was! It was all such an adventure. I loved it. But that was then,’ she says. ‘I’ve come a long way from those days.’
‘And where do you want to go?’ Graham asks.
It seems she’s never really thought about it. ‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve just kept travelling, thinking that if I could keep planning a route, I’d be able to avoid the hurt,’ she says, and her eyes fill with tears. Rhi places a hand on hers. ‘I can’t go back. Dan, my first husband, has moved on. I just have to live with losing him. It was my silly mistake. I should’ve put the effort into being with him, instead of looking elsewhere for my happiness.’
I feel all my senses standing to attention. I just hope there’s still time for Fabien and me to remember what we have.
‘I suppose we have to learn to find a way to live with sadness,’ she says, looking at Rhi.
‘And feel lucky we loved them that much.’ Rhi’s voice cracks.
Come Friday morning, we gather on the terrace overlooking the lavender fields for a trip to the town to visit the grocer and then the brocante to set up later this afternoon when the food is prepared.
‘Any news from Marco?’ I hear Graham ask Maria. She shakes her head. He puts his arm around her and squeezes her to him. No words, just a gesture of support and she seems to appreciate it.
‘He’s probably waxing his windsurfer as we speak,’ she says.
Everyone sighs.
‘We had good times. He was fun. He knew who he was, what he liked, what he didn’t like, and I liked that in him at the time. But now we may have come to the end of our journey together. I don’t hate him. I just think I lost me.’
‘Well, I suggest you sharpen your knife and make the best dish you can. You know what they say about revenge,’ Keith says.
‘A dish best served cold!’ everyone choruses, then laughs, like the sun breaking through and the mist lifting over the lavender field.
‘A few of us will stay behind and carry on in the field and another couple will go to the shops,’ says Ed, taking control.
‘I’m happy to stay and harvest,’ says Samuel, in his deep, rich voice.
‘If that’s okay,’ Ed adds, turning to me.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Right, let’s make a list,’ he says.
Perhaps waiting and wondering if Fabien will make it home tonight won’t be so hard after all. I can’t wait to show him what we’ve done with the brocante.
We walk past the riverside clearing in the fresh air. Later in the day it will be hot. It’s quiet. I pick up the debris of beer cans and other detritus and shove it into my bag to put in a bin when I find one.
In town, the sun is shining and the cream walls of the shops look brighter than ever. Jen and I make our way with keen eyes to the outside stalls. I remember Henri doing this with me, pointing out the sellers to buy from and those who were more geared towards the tourist, happy to pay a little more for a slice of Proven?al life.
Heads down, we look over the tomatoes in the shade of a parasol. The heat of the sun warms the backs of our necks.
‘I’m thinking pork and peaches,’ says Jen.
As well as the daube? Lovely, with herbes de Provence, just a hint of lavender, I think, feeling Henri with me, talking through his idea for a recipe, always with the herbs including the lavender. It’s comforting, like I’m walking in familiar shoes.
‘And a splash of crème fra?che. Or a peach tarte,’ I say, ‘like tarte Tatin, but with peaches.’
‘Perfect!’ She smiles.
‘Roasted peaches, one of Fabien’s favourite things.’
‘Sounds just right!’ says Jen. ‘And we’ll make plenty, if last week was anything to go by.’
I’m starting to feel this might not just be beginner’s luck.
I reach for the peaches, imagining them caramelized in dark sugar sitting on a buttery pastry served with vanilla ice cream just as another hand reaches for them.
‘Del.’ The familiarity of that voice, which fills way too many of my thoughts and sounds taunting, sarcastic and dismissive.
My heart dips. My chest tightens and twists. Suddenly I’m feeling the heat on the back of my head, racing around my neck and up into my cheeks. I snatch my hand back, feeling like I’ve touched an electric fence. I straighten.
‘Zacharie.’
‘We meet again,’ he says, as if I’m some traveller passing through.
‘Yes,’ I say tightly. ‘Well, it is where I live and shop.’
‘It’s a good town. A little pricy maybe, but once the sellers know what we’re doing, I’m sure they’ll come down a little, to be associated with l’expérience. In the meantime, I shall be bringing in produce from elsewhere. Higher quality.’
‘But this place has everything from the local area!’
‘Then they should up their quality and lower their prices if they want local business,’ he says, peering down at the peaches. ‘However, for now, I’ll have to make do with what’s available.’
He points to the peaches and calls to the seller.
‘Oh, actually, excusez-moi,’ I say. I point to the peaches. ‘Pour moi, Renard,’ I tell him.
But Zacharie has already scooped up the box and is holding out a note, pushing it on the seller. Renard looks between him and me. Zacharie puts the note on the scales. ‘Like I say, they’ll need to learn who to prioritize around here. I’m a restaurant attracting high-class clients. Yours is just a hobby that cannot compete.’
I’m left with my mouth waggling up and down.
Renard picks up the note and puts it into his money-belt.
Then he looks at me. ‘Désolé,’ he says.
‘We need to have a rethink,’ I say to Jen, who is waiting in the shade across the road.
‘Why?’
‘Zacharie took the peaches.’
‘We can get more.’ She looks around. ‘Or we stick with a tarte Tatin. An apple one. We don’t need to overcomplicate things.’
We wander the market a little more, but the wind has left my sails.
Later that afternoon when we’re setting up for dinner, my spirits lift. The tartes Tatin are beautiful, amber and golden. And the homemade ice cream is fabulous. Rich and creamy, with flecks of vanilla, served with a sprig of lavender.
This time I’m less nervous. In fact, we’re all in high spirits as we load the camper van with food and plates to take to the brocante. But curiosity is scratching at my door. I want to find out what Zacharie is up to with the peaches he stole from under my nose.
‘Graham and I can walk down the alley and look at the menu, pretend we’re interested diners,’ says Keith, giving the cushions on a chair a final plump.
It shouldn’t matter really. We’re doing the dishes that Henri served, with added twists from everyone’s past. Patatas bravas, small cubed potatoes with a fiery tomato sauce to go with the melt-in-your-mouth beef daube and buttery green beans. Roasted artichokes for the vegetarians. For starters there is duck rillette, made locally, soft like paté, with wine and thyme, served with bread and cornichons, or baked Camembert, drizzled with honey and scattered with rosemary and lavender.
Everything is in its place. I wait anxiously for Keith and Graham’s return, polishing the cutlery that has already been polished to within an inch of its life, and glasses that shine in the hot afternoon sun.
Finally, they’re back, walking hand in hand across the courtyard, heads down.
‘Well?’ I stand up to meet them. Neither of them is smiling.
‘He’s doing a tasting menu,’ says Graham, slowly.
‘With drinks included. A special offer he’s calling it!’ Keith is clenching his fists angrily.
‘What?’ Rhi stands and joins us.
‘He’s doing what?’ I’m trying to process what’s going on.
‘He’s doing a special evening, a tasting menu of his experimental dishes. He’s got the local press there and bloggers. He clearly wants to make sure no one sees what we’re doing here this evening.’
‘Phfff!’ is all I can think of saying.
‘And the peaches?’
‘Peach bellinis with a twist for an aperitif,’ Graham confirms. ‘And then …’
‘A trio of peach desserts, including peach tarte Tatin, with gold leaf.’
I take a deep breath. ‘He’s stolen our idea. He must have heard me talking with Jen.’
Keith and Graham tut. The mood has nose-dived.
Samuel drops his head. ‘Gold leaf? Non, just non! That isn’t a meal, that’s a jewellery store!’
I lift my head. ‘He may have stolen my idea, but that suggests our ideas are good and he should be working with me. Now, let’s show him what the people around here really want. We have plenty on offer. Let’s write out a menu and pin it up outside,’ I say. ‘Keith, do you have any kind of board we could use?’
‘Just the thing.’ He goes into the warehouse and comes out with an artist’s easel and a gold frame.
‘Great,’ I say, and leave him to write out the menu for the supper club while the rest of us carry on getting ready for the evening, with a little less excitement and more nerves than earlier. I keep checking my phone, but there’s no word from Fabien, and I’m thinking he won’t make it now.
At seven o’clock the church bell rings to let us know that it’s the end of the day. The sun is dipping in the sky, and I hear people walking down the street.
‘Here they come,’ I say. ‘People know we’re open tonight. You did lots of canvassing in the market. Well done,’ I say to the others. ‘And giving out the samosas and lavender cookies at the night market yesterday was a great idea!’
The voices get closer and I smile at the gate, ready to welcome people to our second pop-up night. The candles are lit and we’re playing a scratchy but atmospheric tune. The daube smells amazing and tastes just as it should. I’m relaxing by the second.
The voices are by the gate. I smile to welcome them, but they walk on and are now passing the gate.
I frown, then shrug. We stand and wait.
But no one comes.
From the far end of the alley opposite, I can hear voices, welcoming and greeting each other, convivial conversation and corks popping. There is music too, some sort of modern jazz, being played by a cellist if I’m not mistaken.
Finally, by ten past eight, with a pot of daube on the stove and the candles burning brightly on the empty tables, I pull off my apron and march out of the gates towards the top of the alleyway. Then, as if drawn by the strange music and smells, I walk down it and stand beside where the olive tree once was. Sitting outside under the awning, in front of the newly painted l’expérience window sign, are the mayor … and Carine. And the shop owner from across the road, and Renard the greengrocer! It’s full! Of locals! My locals! People who supported me and Henri! What are they all doing here?
‘Carine!’ I say, and she turns.
‘Del, are you coming to join us?’ she says, with only a hint of surprise in her eyes.
‘Non!’ I say crossly. ‘I have a supper club to run … an empty one! What are you doing eating here?’
‘I was invited,’ she says, and nods at the mayor.
‘It is hard not to support all the businesses in the town,’ he says.
‘B-but he closed down Henri’s,’ I splutter.
‘I know, I know,’ the mayor says. ‘But I must be seen to be supportive of all ventures,’ he says, sipping his peach bellini with a twist, whatever the twist might be.
‘It’s just one meal,’ says Carine, trying to calm me. ‘Del, he is Henri’s son. I think he would want us to be here for him.’
Hurt, eyes stinging, I turn away.
‘Ah, Del. Come to experience the real taste of France?’
I turn back to see Zacharie standing in the doorway, smiling, looking far more attractive than he should for someone who is quite so infuriating.
‘I have not,’ I say, with just a tiny shake in my voice.
‘What are you serving tonight? Fish and chips or shepherd’s pie?’ he scoffs.
‘At least I don’t have to resort to bribing customers to come in with cheap menus. The people at my table are there because that’s where they feel at home,’ I say. Just as this place was for me.
I walk away, feeling his eyes on me.
‘Del! Come back! Try the bellinis,’ calls Carine. But I keep walking, feeling let down, hurt and betrayed. Henri was their friend too.
Back at the brocante, I wipe away the tears of frustration on the apron I left there.
‘They’re not coming. No one’s coming,’ I tell the group, with a hiccup, and start to blow out the candles and scoop up the cutlery.
‘No one?’ asks Jen. ‘But I thought they all said they’d be back next week!’
‘Zacharie’s event is heaving. He has the local press, and bloggers, celebrating the street and the local businesses on it. I think most of them are eating there for free tonight.’
‘So they’re eating for free and getting publicity.’
I take a moment. ‘Yes,’ I reply.
‘What are we going to do now?’
‘We may as well pack up and go back to the farmhouse. It looks like our supper club isn’t quite the success we thought it would be,’ I say. They are all as down-hearted and dejected as I feel.
‘Wait! We’re part of this supper club, aren’t we? This is why we started it. Somewhere we all felt at home, sitting round the table,’ says Ed.
‘Yes!’
‘Then what we should do is sit and eat,’ says Ed, firmly.
‘Ed’s right. We should remember why we started this in the first place,’ says Maria.
‘I agree,’ says Jen.
‘And we do! I haven’t felt so much at home since our boy left. It’s like a hole in my heart has been filled,’ says Keith.
So, we relight the candles and lay the tables with the mismatched cutlery, the polished glasses, and start to serve dinner, the baked Camembert and duck rillette with bread and cornichons. Graham pours the wine.
‘?llo? Am I too late?’ It’s Serge, the old lavender farmer. ‘I fell asleep and forgot the time. Have I missed the dinner?’
‘Not too late at all!’ I grin. ‘Come and join us.’
‘First people I’ve seen all week,’ he says. Samuel brings another chair and I move him to the middle of the group, then pour wine into his glass. He beams as the group take seats around him and pass the rillette and Camembert, talking animatedly about the flavours, then asking Serge about the lavender harvest when he was young. He’s delighted to tell them about long days in the fields, cutting and drying the lavender and making oil. The lunches that would take place in the fields in the shade. Siestas afterwards and swimming in the river.
This is why we’re doing this, I think. Not for the bloggers or the journalists, but for the people who want to come to the table and feel among friends, at home.
‘Bon appétit, tout le monde,’ I say, just as I’m about to lift my glass. ‘To the chefs!’
‘?llo?’ I hear, and my wine nearly shoots into the air, as my heart swoops and I whirl around.
‘Fabien!’ I run over to him and hug him hard. Then I pull back and gaze into his face.
He beams, pulls me back to him and kisses me.
‘I missed you!’ I say.
‘And I you!’ He tilts his head. ‘I have a favour to ask.’
‘A favour?’
‘I have the band here. We are on our way to the next festival so I told them of a place that makes amazing food. They are desperate to try it.’
‘Oh, Fabien. Thank you!’
‘You don’t mind?’ he checks.
‘Of course not! I’m delighted. Tell them to come in!’
He kisses me again. ‘I knew you wouldn’t mind.’ He waves at the people by the gate. This is …’ He introduces them all. ‘And Monique.’
So, this is Monique.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ she says, shaking my hand, and I feel I’m being give the once-over, sized up, as I’m doing to her.
We pull up more chairs around the table and glasses are filled. Serge couldn’t look happier, with Ralph lying at his feet waiting for food to fall.
‘This daube is amazing,’ he tells me, dipping his bread into the sauce, which dribbles down his unshaven chin. ‘Just like Henri used to make.’
Samuel grins. ‘It’s home.’ Fabien agrees wholeheartedly with him and they high-five. That makes my night.
We move on to dessert. The tarte Tatin, simple and classic, little custard tarts that Ed made, and Maria’s chocolate mousse with the slightest hint of chilli, with fondant red chillies.
Graham puts his spoon into the custard tart, takes a mouthful and stops. ‘Oh, my God!’ He drops the spoon and claps his hand over his mouth.
Keith looks at him, worried. ‘Gray?’ he says.
Graham’s face falls, and suddenly he bursts into tears.
‘Gray!’