Chapter Ten
When she woke up on Sunday morning, Poppy was delighted to see shafts of sunshine seeping through the slats in the shutters covering the French doors. She made herself a coffee to chase away the last few cobwebs of sleep and tried to ignore the tickle of nerves that wove its way through her veins as she contemplated the day ahead. Over the last year, she had avoided spending time with anyone she didn’t know personally or who hadn’t been introduced to her via one of her brothers.
Drew’s betrayal still reverberated through every aspect of her life, but she knew it was time to put her past behind her instead of allowing it to take centre stage, preventing her from doing things that might be outside her comfort zone, but which could be fun, inspiring and uplifting. Life was full of unexpected bumps and bounces, but it was also full of excitement and joy and exhilaration. It was up to her to decide how she wanted her future to look, and then to straighten her shoulders and go out and make it happen.
She spent a few extra minutes styling her hair, noticing that her fringe was a little longer than she was used to. She pulled on her fedora and denim jacket, grabbed her satchel, and opened the door, almost tripping over a glossy yellow carrier bag with white ribbon handles, its contents concealed beneath the sheet of crumpled tissue paper. She smiled, knowing the surprise package could only be a gift from Hélène to make sure her rendezvous with Fabien got off to the best possible start.
She discarded the tissue and gasped with delight when she lifted out a beret in a rich clotted cream colour, followed by a gorgeous forest-green pea coat with huge silver buttons. She immediately shrugged off her old jacket and slotted her arms into the coat, swishing backwards and forwards in front of the mirror on the back of the studio’s front door. She arranged the beret at a jaunty angle, and for the first time she felt as though she blended in perfectly with her fellow Parisians. She wanted to race down the stairs to thank Hélène, but giggled when she remembered it was Sunday and she and Odette were watching a session of sumo-wrestling.
She couldn’t wait to hear about that.
Rue Saint-André was quieter than usual that morning, with only a few people gathered around a tour guide who was holding a bright orange rolled-up umbrella in the air as he explained that the area they were in – Le Marais – had once been a marsh and was one of the few parts of Paris to maintain its medieval charm. She wanted to stay a little longer, eavesdropping on the ad hoc history lesson, but she saw Fabien emerge from the door of the bistro looking harassed as he scrolled distractedly through his phone.
She realised that he hadn’t noticed her loitering amidst the tour group, which gave her the opportunity to watch him for a few moments unobserved. He looked different without his white chef’s jacket, having chosen a well-worn leather jacket and black jeans for his day off from his duties in the kitchen. His hair was neatly styled, his jawline clean-shaven, and she experienced the same fizz of attraction she had on the first night she’d met him. However, it was clear from his demeanour that something was bothering him, and her heart sank.
Was he regretting his offer to show her around Paris?
‘Salut, Fabien,’ she said, trying to ignore the swoop of dismay. The last thing she wanted was for him to spend the morning doing something he didn’t want to do, so she decided to be upfront about it, rather than have the discomfort of his reluctance niggle at her the whole time they were together, just as she had felt with Stéphane. ‘Look, I’ll completely understand if you need to be at the bistro this morning… or anywhere else for that matter.’
‘What? No, no, I…’
She saw him hesitate and had braced herself for what was coming, so the last thing she expected was for him to slip his hand into hers and guide her through the door back into the bistro. She had taken only two steps into the empty restaurant when she came to an abrupt standstill and gaped at the sight in front of her.
‘What the—?
She glanced at Fabien, then back at the towering crates of bottled water stacked into columns as tall as she was next to the bar, along with two more columns of the instantly recognisable Coca-Cola and Sprite cans.
‘My reaction was more… expressive!’ said Fabien, as he stared at the delivery.
‘Do you want me to help you sort it out? I’m used to doing this kind of task at the bistro back home. If we work together, it won’t take long, then we can head out on our city tour; if you still want to go, that is.’
‘Of course I do! This….’ Fabien swung his palm around the room, his forehead creased in dismay. ‘Has nothing to do with me!’
‘Ah, so Pascal…’
‘No. I’ve just called Pascal and he denies ordering any of it. For a start, we don’t sell Coca-Cola in cans, and even if we did, we wouldn’t have ordered so many because we have nowhere to store them. And this?’ Fabien picked up a bottle with purple and silver branding, squinting with distaste at the words printed across the front advertising Dandelion Burdock. ‘What is this?’
Poppy laughed. ‘Ah, yes, we sell that at the Boathouse Bistro. I admit it’s an acquired taste. So what do you think has happened? Did the delivery guy get the wrong address?’
‘That’s what I thought at first until he showed me the paperwork. It’s our address, and to make things even more confusing, my name is on the order.’
Fabien handed a sheaf of paper to Poppy, and she stared at it, baffled.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, but…’ Fabien paused, dropped onto one of the stools in front of the bar, and exhaled a long breath of resignation, his usual good humour deflated. Poppy slid onto the seat next to him, relishing the waft of his cologne, a mixture of leather and oriental spice, that hung in the air between them. There was clearly something amiss, and she was keen to help in any way she could.
‘Fabien?’
‘It’s not the first time something like this has happened.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Last week, Pascal took a delivery of escargot; he thought I’d ordered them, so he signed for them, but I hadn’t ordered them, and the week before that it was the flowers from étienne.’
‘Flowers?’
‘Yes, a huge frothy bouquet of pink roses, stargazer lilies, and a load of white flowers I can’t remember the name of. étienne had clearly spent hours arranging them, and they were beautiful, but neither I nor Pascal had ordered them. I accepted them, of course, and paid him for them, and they did look magnificent in vases on the bar and dotted around the restaurant, but…’ Fabien shrugged.
‘So if you didn’t order any of these things, who did?’
‘Je ne sais pas. It’s probably just an unfortunate mix-up. We’ll sort it out.’ Poppy thought Fabien was going to say something else, but instead he jumped down from his stool and met her gaze. ‘Let’s put this conundrum to one side for the moment and get on with our tour of the most beautiful city in the world, eh? Are you ready?’
‘I am.’
She followed Fabien out of the bistro and back onto Rue Saint-André, which was now bustling with visitors and locals alike. They sauntered through the cobbled streets and alleyways, chatting about random things they saw on display in the eclectic mix of shops and eateries they passed, their facades decorated in a rainbow of colours. Finally, they drew to a stop in front of a wrought iron archway with Marché des Enfants Rouges painted in red letters across the top.
Poppy wrinkled her forehead as she attempted a translation. She had expected their first port of call to be Place des Vosges, the Pompidou Centre, or Notre-Dame, even, not a non-descript thoroughfare that was crammed to bursting with people. She turned to ask Fabien why they were there, when, to her astonishment, he grabbed hold of her and pulled her into his arms.
She gasped as he held her tight, her body pressed hard against his muscular torso, so close she could feel his heartbeat and the tickle of his soft breath on her cheek. A flash of desire shot southwards, but confusion reigned until she looked over her shoulder and realised that he had dragged her out of the way of a young boy who was racing straight towards her on an electric scooter. Fabien’s swift action had avoided a painful collision with only seconds to spare.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’
‘De rein. Come, we have arrived at the perfect place to commence Poppy Phillipson’s Grand Tour of Paris. You’ll be pleased to hear that through this gate is a food lover’s paradise, filled with gastronomic treasures from all four corners of the world. Allons-y!’
Poppy followed Fabien through the arch and was instantly engulfed by a vibrant tapestry of international produce, from bright red tomatoes, striped green watermelons, and glossy purple aubergines, to dishes of pasta, ramen and couscous. A mixture of tantalising aromas rotated through the air, and everywhere she looked there were people standing at varnished wooden bar tops, seated at mosaic-topped tables, or perched on tiny bistro chairs enjoying the wide variety of food that was on offer.
The burble of conversation and soft jazz music was punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the occasional pop of a Champagne cork, and the atmosphere was relaxed and convivial. Fabien navigated the culinary labyrinth with practised ease, greeting store holders with a handshake and a smile, pausing regularly to test the ripeness of an avocado, sniff a bunch of fresh herbs, or scrutinise a particularly interesting wine label, all while providing Poppy with a running commentary on what he would create with those items in the bistro’s kitchen, before asking her the same question.
She was thrilled to be with someone who was as passionate about the food on display as she was, concentrating hard when Fabien paused to speak in high-speed French to a vendor offering over forty different kinds of cheeses from the length and breadth of France, a few of which the stallholder had made herself at the small farm she and her husband owned just outside Paris.
‘Do you have something like this in Blossomwood Bay?’
‘Not like this, but we do have a weekly market in the village square, and there’s a farm shop not far away that sells organic fruit and vegetables where Kath sources as many of the ingredients we use at the Boathouse Bistro as possible.’
Fabien bought them both a coffee and a croissant from one of the stalls, and they sat amidst the noise and clatter chatting enthusiastically about new fruits and spices they had discovered recently and the recipes they had created with them, making suggestions for the pastry, cake or dessert they would have made with the same choice.
‘You know, I asked Olivier if I could try out a couple of my recipes in his kitchen.’
Fabien smirked. ‘What did he say?’
‘He wasn’t impressed.’ Poppy laughed. ‘In fact, I think he was horrified.’
‘Well, you can use the kitchen at the bistro, if you like. I’d love to learn how to create a few of your local Devonshire recipes, and in return, I’ll demonstrate a couple of my favourites from where I grew up in the south of France.’
Poppy experienced an uptick of delight. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Bien s?r. I have as much to learn from you as you do from me. Making new discoveries is what inspires us to keep moving forward, don’t you think? Unless we expand our knowledge, and our horizons, we will become stale, in our gastronomic endeavours and in life.’ Fabien tossed back the remains of his coffee. ‘Come on. There’s a lot more I want to show you.’
They left the market and meandered towards the river, arriving fifteen minutes later in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral, part of its exterior still caged in scaffolding as the building continued to undergo its renovation after the traumatic fire. A miniature tented village had sprung up on the parvis in front of the church where architects, engineers and artisans worked or took a break from the important and painstaking task of bringing the most iconic church in France back to its former glory.
Instead of parroting a long list of facts and figures about the history of the cathedral, or about the circumstances surrounding the fire and its aftermath, Fabien simply spent a few moments in silence, appreciating its architectural beauty before pointing to a rather unassuming bronze plaque cemented into the ground on the west side of the cathedral featuring an engraved gold star and the words Point Zero.
‘This is the point from which all travel distances in France are measured,’ said Fabien, rummaging in his pocket and producing two coins, handing one of them to Poppy. ‘It’s customary to come here at the end of a tour or a stay in Paris to make a wish, but as we’re standing here, why don’t we do it now?’
Fabien tossed his coin in the air and it landed in the precise centre of the star. Of course, when Poppy did the same, the coin bounced off one of the star’s points and rolled a metre or so outside the plaque.
‘Does that mean my wish won’t come true?’
‘Not at all. Anyway, there are other Point Zero traditions.’
‘What like?’
‘Spinning on one foot in the centre of the star while making a wish, or…’
‘What?’
Fabien’s dark eyes met hers, his lips twitching slightly.
‘Kissing the one you love while standing on the plaque to ensure everlasting love.’
‘Oh, I…’
Poppy’s breath caught in her throat as her heart skipped a beat. To her embarrassment, heat flooded her cheeks, and she quickly averted her gaze in the hope that Fabien hadn’t seen her reaction to what he had just said.
Fortunately, he simply smiled, took hold of her hand, and guided her towards the cobbled pathway that ran alongside the River Seine, any lingering awkwardness vanishing immediately as they continued their earlier conversation about recipes, ingredients and their favourite culinary techniques and utensils. When they reached the famous Pont Neuf, she paused to watch a Bateau Mouche sail beneath the bridge like a giant mechanical swan carrying a cargo of tourists, their cameras raised as they approached the ?le de la Cité.
She, too, removed her phone to take a photograph to send to her parents and Jamie, and to Holly and Rachel, whom she knew were eager to hear all the details of her stay in Paris. She couldn’t believe how lucky she was to be standing there, with the sun on her face, simply soaking up the atmosphere alongside a new friend, without feeling the need to tick off the next item on a list of Top Ten Must Sees.
This was the perfect way to experience the real Paris, and she sent up a missive of thanks to the director in charge of her destiny for guiding her feet into Bistro Fabien that first night.
Serendipity was clearly alive and well, and Poppy couldn’t be happier.