Chapter Eight
The next morning, Poppy skipped down the stairs to Hélène’s apartment, her satchel in one hand, the Maison de Pierre carrier bag in the other. She knocked on the door, smiling when she was greeted by a flurry of enthusiastic yapping, followed by the ubiquitous cheek kisses that had become second nature now that she’d been there for a week.
‘Bonjour, Hélène. I was wondering if you know where I can get this dress drycleaned before I take it back to Pierre. Oh, and do you know what his favourite drink is? I’d like to buy him something to say thank you for his generosity.’
‘Pierre adores Champagne! Who doesn’t!’ said Hélène, indicating the upholstered sofa next to the French doors that lead out to the balcony overlooking Rue Saint-Andre. That day Poppy’s landlady wore a chic charcoal-grey wraparound dress that fit her petite frame perfectly, with an elegant orange and white scarf tied around her neck and a pair of kitten-heeled black leather ankle boots. ‘And there’s a dry cleaners in the next street – Claude Souchon – tell him I sent you and he’ll give you a discount.’
‘How was your evening with Odette?’
‘Intense, exhilarating, an onslaught on every one of the senses. Isn’t that what life is all about, though? The ignition of a slumbering flame into a fireball of enthusiasm, which reminds us that we are truly alive! Anyway, enough about me,’ said Hélène, placing a black coffee in front of Poppy before taking a seat next to her and fixing her with a steely gaze. ‘Don’t keep me in suspense, chérie. How was your rendezvous with Stéphane last night?’
Poppy hesitated and Hélène misread her reticence.
‘I was teasing you about revealing all the intimate details, but if you feel like imparting the preamble leading up to the main event to an older woman who would be delighted to hear about the amorous rituals of today’s pretty young things, then I’m all ears.’
Poppy didn’t want to disappoint Hélène – who was looking at her expectantly – but other than making something up, which she would struggle to do, she had no choice. She took a quick sip of her espresso and met Hélène’s eyes.
‘Unfortunately, my evening with Stéphane wasn’t a success.’
‘Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Poppy, but you must console yourself in the fact that there are many more fish in the ocean for you to swim with… and there is still your date with the delicious Fabien to look forward to.’
Poppy sighed and sank back against her seat. ‘I don’t think I’m going to go. I’m going to book a professional tour, led by someone who is not only knowledgeable but also passionate about bringing the city to life. I want to immerse myself in the real Paris, not skate across the surface gathering facts and figures and snagging the occasional photograph for my social media accounts. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate Stéphane giving up his Friday night to give me the grand tour, but it was like he was my college tutor, spouting out random quotes from textbooks for me to commit to memory so I could reproduce them in a weekly test.’
‘So, there was no molten explosion of fire between you?’
Poppy giggled at Hélène’s unexpectedly vivid description.
‘Not even a lacklustre spark.’
‘That’s a shame. I thought the two of you would have much more in common, especially as you have the connection to your brother to smooth over the bumps when your conversational landscape becomes rocky.’
‘I did, too, but never mind.’
‘Remember what I told you yesterday? No two experiences are the same, no two tour guides are the same. While you might not have clicked with Stéphane from the bookstore, maybe Chef Fabien is the one for you.’
Poppy didn’t want to meander any further into the wasteland of her love life with Hélène, and she certainly didn’t want to revisit the reason she had broken up with Drew, the man she had thought she would be spending the rest of her life with. She suspected that once Hélène was aware of the farcical story, she would redouble her efforts to fix her up with a few more potential “tour guides”, so she changed the subject.
‘What’s on the agenda for you today?’
‘Odette and I are spending the day drone racing.’
Even though she had been expecting to hear something unusual, she hadn’t been prepared to hear something so completely off-the-wall as drone racing, and she wasn’t exactly sure what it was. However, she didn’t want to be late for work, so she simply nodded and smiled in encouragement.
‘Great. Have fun.’ She drained her espresso and pushed herself up from the sofa. ‘Okay, I’d better head off. Thanks for the coffee, Hélène.’
‘De rein.’
There was a distinct chill in the air as she made her way to the drycleaners that Hélène had recommended, and she pulled the collar of her denim jacket up to cover her neck. She desperately needed to persuade Camille to take her on a more affordable shopping trip, otherwise she would freeze as November moved towards December. After dropping off Pierre’s dress, she retraced her steps down Rue Saint-André towards Patisserie Madeleine, her heart bouncing hard against her ribcage when she spotted Stéphane coming the other way.
Not wanting to deal with the potential awkwardness, or heaven forbid, respond to a suggestion they repeat their “date”, she scooted behind a conveniently placed ornamental shrub outside a high-end jewellery shop. Her cheeks flushed with heat when she realised that the shop was next door to Bistro Fabien and the ornamental shrub was part of the bistro’s paved seating area where a customer was scrolling through the messages on his phone while he waited for his coffee to be delivered.
‘Bonjour, Poppy.’
Fabien smirked as he placed an espresso and a croissant onto the table in front of the man who was staring at her in confusion as she untangled herself from the foliage with as much dignity as she could.
‘Ah, bonjour, Fabien. I was just…’
‘Hiding behind this tree? Yes, I can see that.’
Fabien’s lips twitched in amusement as he glanced up and down the street searching for potential dangers. She could feel her heart beating wildly against her ribcage, mortified that he had found her in such a compromising position, but also because he looked so attractive in his white chef’s jacket, his dark mahogany hair neatly barbered, his eyes filled with mischief, and something else that caused her stomach to swirl.
Flustered, she cast a quick glance towards the bookshop, and was relieved to see Stéphane disappearing through the front door, totally oblivious to the comedy sketch unfolding across the street. When she looked back at Fabien, she saw that he had followed her gaze, but instead of the smirk of realisation she had expected, she saw something different in his eyes, something she struggled to decipher.
‘Anyway, must dash.’ Poppy straightened her jacket, hitched her satchel onto her shoulder, and stepped away from the bistro’s outdoor seating area, which she could now see had a matching ornamental topiary at the other side to delineate its section of the pavement. ‘Au revoir, Fabien.’
‘à demain,’ Fabien smiled, holding her gaze for a few seconds longer than necessary.
‘Oh, actually…’
Poppy paused to inhale a breath, gathering her courage to thank him for his offer to meet her the next day for a sightseeing tour before informing him that, unfortunately, she couldn’t now make it. However, she was no actress, or proficient manipulator of the truth, and the words wouldn’t come, especially when she met his eyes and experienced the same frisson of desire that had zipped through her body the first time she’d met him.
‘Yes, of course, see you tomorrow.’
When she arrived at the patisserie, Camille was already there alongside Alain who was busy serving an elderly couple with a selection of multi-coloured macarons – Olivier’s speciality. She quickly replaced her jacket with her Patisserie Madeliene apron so he could go and help his brother in the kitchen. The fragrance of warm, buttery pastry made her tastebuds tingle, and she couldn’t wait for the mid-morning lull in customers so she could sample one of the pistachio macarons.
However, it was almost lunchtime by the time she was able to perch alongside Camille and enjoy a cup of thick, dark coffee courtesy of Alain, and help herself to the coveted macaron. While Alain chatted to Camille in rapid-fire French, she excused herself to make a quick visit to the bathroom, pausing at the kitchen doorway to watch Olivier put the finishing touches to a tray of Paris-Brest.
Despite his plaster casts – which that day sported red and white striped bows – he sprinkled a mixture of flaked almonds and hazelnuts on the top of the wheel-shaped patisserie with almost military precision. Although he worked with powdered sugar instead of powdered paint, the artistry he created was worthy of a place in one the many galleries dotted around that part of Paris.
‘Ah, salut, Poppy!’ said Olivier, when he saw her lingering at the door. ‘Come in, come in! How are things with you? Are you enjoying your stay in Paris so far? Has your French improved? I’m sorry I haven’t had much time to spend with you. As you can see, I’m busy with the shop, but also my daughter Lili has been performing in an ice-skating competition this week, and tomorrow Théa will be singing in her school choir at our local church. Here, taste one of these and tell me what you think.’
Poppy selected one of the mini tarte Tatin that Olivier had indicated and took a bite. She rolled her eyes with delight as she relished the flavours of tangy apple, caramelised sugar and buttery pastry that went so well together. She hoped she would be able to make something similar – taking advantage of the myriad apple varieties that were available in Devon – when she had her own business.
‘It’s spectacular; a symphony on the tongue.’
‘Merci, Poppy.’
She finished the tarte, and, feeling emboldened, she met Olivier’s kind brown eyes.
‘Olivier, when you’re not so busy, do you think I could spend a couple of hours in the kitchen with you before I go back home? I’d love to learn the techniques involved in creating authentic Parisian patisserie, and maybe, in return, I can demonstrate a couple of recipes that are popular in Devon.’
She regretted her words as soon as they came out of her mouth when she saw Olivier’s lips twitch downwards. Realising she had seen his reaction, he made a valiant effort to disguise his dismay at her suggestion, but she knew there was no way he would allow anything other than French patisserie to be made in his domain, and she should have realised that. Kath was protective about what was made in her kitchen at the Boathouse Bistro, too, always keeping a watchful eye on whatever Beckie and Poppy produced, and nothing left the kitchen without her personal seal of approval.
Reputation was everything; in Devon and in Paris.
‘I’m happy to demonstrate a couple of my recipes for you, Poppy,’ offered Olivier.
‘Thank you.’
Poppy made her escape to the restroom, disappointed that her anticipated immersion in all-things patisserie – its creation, not its sale – probably wouldn’t come to fruition. Downhearted, she returned to her post behind the counter, grateful that the shop was empty so that she could work on the return of her “customer service” smile.
‘So, how was your date with Stéphane last night?’
Poppy told Camille the same story she had told Hélène, sending her spirits even further down the slope of despondency.
‘Does that mean you’re not going to see him again?’
‘I don’t think so, unless I bump into him in the bookshop. There are a couple of cookery books in there that I’d really like to add to my collection.’
‘Oh, well, there’s always tomorrow to look forward to.’ Poppy scrunched up her nose and Camille stared at her. ‘What?Oh, sorry, has Fabien cancelled?’
‘No, he hasn’t cancelled!’ Poppy rolled her eyes at Camille. ‘I just don’t think I want to spend my day off racing around the tourist spots of Paris like some kind of marathon runner. I’d rather spend my time mooching around the vintage bookshops, visiting the flea markets, and I really really need to do some clothes shopping.’
‘Hey, I have something that will cheer you up!’
Camille reached under the counter for her handbag – a large briefcase-like item fashioned from bright orange leather and decorated with what looked like silver sequins the size of coins which, on closer inspection, were engraved with tiny cupcakes. It was quirky, original, and the perfect accessory for Camille who that day was wearing a satsuma-coloured tunic with a wide leopard-print hem and patch pockets.
‘Voilà!’
Camille brandished a pair of tickets in the air.
‘What are they?’
‘The tickets I told you about for Pierre’s Spring/Summer catwalk show next week.’ Camille’s smile widened. ‘It’s being held in the ballroom of one of the luxury boutique hotels overlooking the river, and do you know what the most exciting thing of all is?’
‘What?’
‘I took your advice and… I’ve entered the ballot to show one of my designs.’
‘Camille, that’s wonderful.’
To Poppy’s surprise, the smile slipped from Camille’s lips, replaced with a mixture of uncertainty, hesitation and nervousness.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There’s something else.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve also entered Olivier into the baking competition I told you about.’
‘You’ve… really?’
‘I know he’ll win.’
‘Have you told him?’
‘No. I was waiting for the right time. He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment; the patisserie, his daughters, not to mention the fact that Christmas is only six weeks away. Also, if I tell him now, he’ll start obsessing about perfection and start spending every spare minute he has practising, practising, practising. I don’t care what he says, Olivier is at the top of his game, and he doesn’t need to practise what comes naturally. I thought, so as not to stress him out over the next couple of weeks, I would come clean a few days beforehand. What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure, Camille. To be honest, if it were me, I’d want as much notice as possible. But I’m no Olivier Bourdain, the best patissier in the whole of Paris.’
‘I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Poppy.’
‘Maybe,’ Poppy mumbled, scouring her brain for a change of subject so she didn’t have to share the fact that Olivier obviously thought differently about her skills as a pastry chef. ‘Okay, so we’ve discussed my “rendezvous” with Stéphane, what about you, Camille? Who are you dating at the moment?’
‘I was out with a guy from my gym last night, and tonight I have a date with one of my sister’s customers from her hair salon, Jean-Jacques, who apparently is a fireman, but…’
‘What?’
‘Well, there’s someone who’s been at the top of my wish list for a while.’
‘Who?’
‘étienne.’
‘The florist?’
‘Yes,’ said Camille, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. ‘Sadly, he’s not interested. Every time I deliver his patisserie order, the only thing he says is that they’re wonderful, and then he rushes off to tend to his beloved plants.’
‘Maybe he does that because he is interested in you.’
Camille’s eyes shot to Poppy’s. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Not everyone is as confident as you are, Camille. Some people are shy, reserved, unsure how to react when they’re in the presence of someone they have feelings for. Even more so when that person is as amazing as you are.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you think I should ask him out?’
‘I think maybe you should find a way to talk to him first.’
‘And then ask him out?’
‘Just take it one step at a time and see what happens.’
Poppy could barely believe that she was giving Camille dating advice, but her friend was right, étienne had acted like a deer in caught in the headlights the previous day when Camille had delivered his box of patisserie. Maybe it was because he wasn’t interested, which was why she’d cautioned her to talk to him before rushing in to ask him out.
‘If I do that, will you go on the city tour with Fabien?’
‘Okay.’
The rest of the day passed in a blur of activity, and when it was time for her to leave, Olivier handed her a box of savoury pastries – still warm from the oven – along with a selection of his signature macarons, which she suspected was his version of a peace offering for unintentionally belittling English cakes and desserts. She accepted gracefully, and gratefully, giving him a hug for his thoughtfulness before heading home.
Despite her determination to try not to mind eating alone in cafés and bistros, she still felt awkward sitting at a table for one, and she certainly didn’t want to risk a repeat of being put with a group of complete strangers again. Next time they might not speak English.