Chapter Eleven
‘Want to take a break?’
‘Yes, please.’
Fabien pointed to a low stone wall, and they perched side by side on its parapet, sitting in companionable silence for a few moments while they continued to watch the sightseeing boats glide along the water, and the many couples and families out for a Sunday stroll along the river, most of them wrapped up against the light November breeze.
No matter which way Poppy looked there was a view worthy of a glossy travel brochure; the elegant hotels, galleries and museums, the convivial pavement cafés and bistros, the various bridges traversing the river – including the famous Pont des Artes that had almost crumbled because of the weight of the many padlocks attached to its grilles by lovers in a gesture of everlasting love for each other, if not the bridge’s future.
‘What happened to the locks when they were removed?’ she asked.
‘Several things.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, some of them were recycled, some of them were auctioned off and the money donated to charity, and some of them were turned into a three-metre-high work of art entitled “Chez Nous”. Also, there’s a jeweller by the name of Phileas le Cléateur who managed to unlock over eight hundred padlocks from the bridge just before the city performed its big sweep and has made it his mission to return as many of them to their original owners as possible.’
‘Oh, that’s so romantic.’
‘I agree. Paris is a very romantic city.’
Fabien cast a glance in her direction, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. For reasons she couldn’t fathom, she felt drawn to him, as though there was an invisible thread pulling them towards each other that made her at once thrilled and alarmed. She had only just met him, barely knew anything about him, and yet she felt as though she had known him for ever, and, more worryingly, that he “saw” her for everything she was… and wasn’t. Keen to divert their conversation back to safer ground, Poppy changed the subject.
‘How long have you lived in Paris, Fabien?’
‘I came here in May.’
Poppy stared at him. ‘Oh, I thought you’d been here a lot longer.’
‘No, I grew up in a small village just outside Nice. I trained here though, first at Le Cordon Bleu, then at a couple of five-star hotels in the city before going back home to work my way up the ladder at a well-regarded restaurant on the Promenade des Anglais, a place that was only frequented by celebrities, politicians, and the very wealthy. I loved it… at first.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It was important to me to keep the menu fresh. In addition to our usual haute cuisine, created using the highest quality ingredients, meticulous preparation and elaborate presentation, I wanted to offer our esteemed clientele something a little more… unique, showcasing new flavours, unusual textures, experimental techniques. However, it seemed our rich regulars weren’t interested in expanding their palettes, and the owner ordered me to stick to the same menu, day in, day out. After a particularly stressful couple of months at the beginning of the year, I decided it was time to call it quits and follow my dreams.’
‘You resigned?’
‘Yes. I moved to Paris to open my own bistro where I can make my own decisions about what goes on the menu and be as adventurous as I like. I didn’t care that the only place I could afford was the size of a shoe box; small is beautiful, n’est-ce pas? Pascal, an old school friend who was working at one of the tourist hotels overlooking the Eiffel Tour, jumped at the chance to join me, and it turns out we make a great team. I run the kitchen, Pascal runs front-of-house, with the occasional assistance of a couple of Le Cordon Bleu students when we’re busy. Everything was going well until….’
‘Until what?’
Fabien sighed, his eyes fixed on the rhythmic undulation of the river a few metres away.
‘I got a bad review. Actually, it wasn’t just bad, it was scathing, and, in my view, totally unjustified, although I suppose I would say that.’ Fabien paused, inhaling a steadying breath before continuing. ‘Pascal told me to forget about it, and he reminded me that not everyone was going to like everything I create, but what made the criticism even harder to take was the fact that the restaurant I worked at in Nice never got a bad review, not once, so it was a huge shock.’
‘Fabien, I’m sorry that happened, but I think Pascal is right.’
‘I know, I know. It took me a while to accept that, but I did manage to put it down to experience until another review was posted a week later, this time about my bouillabaisse, followed by another one slating my cassoulet, which was a family recipe handed down from my great-grandmother! On the face of it, it looked like they were from different people who’d dined at the bistro at different times over the summer, but the way the reviews were written – using similar words and phraseology – I’m certain that the same person is responsible for all of them.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, but their negative feedback has had a detrimental impact on our bookings, especially amongst the people who call Le Marais their home and who made up the majority of our mid-week customers. In order to survive, Pascal and I decided to temporarily switch our attention to catering for pre-arranged group reservations from two or three trusted tour companies as part of their all-inclusive packages. It’s mainly British and American groups, and a few Scandinavians, and thankfully there’s only been one negative review this month… so far.’
‘But who would do something like that?’
‘I don’t know but, coupled with the delivery issues we’ve been having these last few weeks, it’s difficult not to think that Bistro Fabien is being targeted by someone either I or Pascal have unintentionally upset at some point. Anyway, enough about me, what about you? What inspired you to train as a pastry chef?’
Poppy swung her legs backwards and forwards in front of her as she cast her thoughts back to her decision to go to catering college instead of university like her parents and her three eldest brothers had done. It was a decision she had never regretted.
‘Growing up, my brother Jamie and I were always fascinated by food; he loved all-things savoury, and I was passionate about cakes, biscuits and desserts, especially those that included chocolate or cocoa as part of the recipe. I adore chocolate! Anyway, Jamie came here to Paris to train as a chef, and when he came back home, he was full of enthusiasm, which cemented my decision to enrol on a catering course at the local college. When I qualified, my dad’s friend Jonti offered me a job at his bakery in Sidmouth and working there was lots of fun, apart from the fact that there weren’t many chocolate-related items on the daily schedule.’
She paused, not wanting to stray too close to the reason she had left Sidmouth and a job she had enjoyed, before moving swiftly on.
‘Then an opportunity came along to rent one of eight cute little beach huts situated on a wooden boardwalk overlooking a picturesque marina further up the Devon coast, and I decided to follow my dream of becoming a chocolatier. From the very first day I opened the doors to the public I absolutely loved it. I spent hours researching recipes, and my client base increased with the influx of visitors to Blossomwood Bay over the spring and the beginning of summer.’
Poppy swallowed down hard on a sudden uptick of emotion.
‘Then the fire happened, and all the beach huts were destroyed, as well as the boardwalk, and the only building that was left unscathed was the Boathouse Bistro. I lost everything; my equipment, my precious recipe books – and I had over eighty, some of which are out of print and irreplaceable – and of course, all the wonderful chocolates that I’d worked so hard to make ended up at the bottom of the bay for the fish to feast on.’
Like everyone she told the heartbreaking story to, Fabien asked about the insurance situation, and she told him about their so-far-fruitless search for Dexter – and the reason for that.
‘Wow, that sounds like quite a trek!’
‘Yes, a very long hike through some of the most isolated terrain in the world!’
Poppy had mixed feelings about Dexter’s decision to walk the PCT and the fact that he’d chosen to cut all lines of communication with his management team back in the UK. She knew the fire wasn’t his fault – although he had booked and paid for the old-fashioned carousel whose faulty electrics had caused the fire – but a man with his responsibilities should at least have an emergency protocol in place in case something urgent happened and his input was needed. However, she could also appreciate how difficult it must be to be constantly harassed by the media, whose only desire was to catch him unawares so they could splash the images across the internet.
‘What happened to the other beach hut owners?’
Poppy smiled at Fabien’s genuine interest in what had happened to her and her friends. It was refreshing, and the complete opposite to the experience she’d had with Stéphane, who had shown no interest in her whatsoever, let alone her friends and family. She gave Fabien a brief synopsis of her fellow beach hut owners’ business enterprises, how devastated they had all been – especially Suzie who had lost the most, financially at least – and what they were doing now.
‘So you said there were eight beach huts on the boardwalk?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But you’ve only told me about six friends, including you that makes seven. What happened to the remaining one?’
She grinned, feeling even more grateful for his solicitous curiosity.
‘Dexter insisted on keeping one of the beach huts for the community to use and it was run on a rota by the ladies from the Blossomwood Bay Women’s Institute. During the weekends and school holidays, to cut down on the discarded plastic waste that has become a huge problem along our coastline, they’d hire out deckchairs, parasols, windbreaks, buckets and spades, tiny flags and windmills, and fishing nets. Just last year, the local litter patrol group collected over eighty abandoned polystyrene bodyboards that would otherwise have to go to landfill or for incineration, and don’t get me started on how many plastic water bottles and carrier bags we found. It’s a hazard to everyone who uses the beach, as well as our marine life, not to mention how ugly it looks washed up on the shore.’
‘That’s a great initiative,’ said Fabien, nodding. ‘We should consider something similar in Nice, and at the tourist resorts all along the Riviera. So, what do you plan to do when the insurance money finally does come through?’
Poppy smiled, her excitement rising as she thought of her longed-for café dream. ‘Like you, I want to open my own restaurant, equally as small, but mine will be an English Garden Café. It’s really important that I find the perfect location, with sweeping lawns, colourful shrubs and plants, pretty flowerbeds, and an outdoor seating area with an uninterrupted view of the countryside. I’ll have pristine white table linen and pretty china teapots and crockery and serve delicious afternoon teas, both classic and with a twist. Of course, there’ll be Devonshire scones with lashings of cream and oodles of homemade strawberry jam, but I also want to offer a selection of pastries that are a fusion of what’s best of both English and French patisserie. Oh, and there’ll be lots of chocolate-based desserts, too.’
‘Sounds like a great plan. Now I understand why you’re keen to spend time in a kitchen while you’re in Paris. I’m really looking forward to doing that with you.’Fabien paused, a shadow of doubt floating crossed his dark brown eyes.‘That’s if you still want to do that with me, now you’ve heard about the critical reviews of my culinary skills.’
‘I’ve had the pleasure of eating at your bistro, Fabien, and I can honestly say that the food was the best I’ve tasted since coming to France.’
‘Merci, Poppy, tu es très gentile.’
‘De rein.’ She smiled.
‘Come on, your tour is not over yet.’
Fabien jumped from the wall, then reached out to help Poppy down, a gesture that caused a flash electricity to shoot through her body as his hands clasped her waist and lingered for a few tantalising seconds to make sure her feet were firmly on the ground. She briefly wondered if Fabien could feel their unexpected connection, too, but pushed that thought from her mind in favour of enjoying their friendship.
They continued their promenade through the bustling streets, chatting about all the many things they had in common, one of which unsurprisingly turned out to be collecting cookery books, and Poppy was thrilled when he offered to show her his collection – some of which he had inherited from his great-grandmother who had been the inspiration behind Fabien’s choice of career. She was so engrossed in their conversation she was surprised when they came to a halt outside an Art Deco building whose frontage looked like the prow of a ship.
‘Welcome to Galeries Lafayette, the largest department store in Paris.’
‘It’s very impressive, but why are we here?’
Fabien grinned. ‘I can see from your beret that you like hats.’
‘Oh, this isn’t mine; it belongs to my landlady, Hélène. But you’re right, I adore hats.’
‘Wait until you see what they have inside.’
Fabien grinned, once again sliding his hand into hers and guiding her through the front door. When she stepped into the store and looked around at all the luxury designer brands on show – Chanel, Balmain, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Guerlain, Lanc?me, Hermès, Cartier, Yves St. Laurent – she knew she would never be able to afford to supplement her wardrobe there.
However, a girl could window-shop, couldn’t she?
An uptick of excitement and anticipation suffused her chest as she feasted her eyes on the clothes, accessories, shoes, jewellery, cosmetics, skincare and fragrances on offer. However, it was when they arrived in the middle of the store that she stopped in her tracks and gasped in astonishment as she tipped her head back and looked upwards.
‘Wow! Just… wow!’
The department store was more like an opera house than a retail establishment, with a sweeping curved staircase leading from where Poppy stood on the ground floor to the upper levels where a three-tiered ring of gold-encrusted balconies housed designer fashion items instead of classical music lovers, crowned by a truly magnificent stained-glass dome through which daylight flooded, illuminating the store’s central atrium. It was jaw-droppingly beautiful, and Poppy struggled to find words to express her amazement.
‘This way.’
Fabien took her elbow and pointed to an almost hidden niche at the rear of a perfume concession, and she allowed herself to be directed through a wide archway before coming to a standstill, her eyes wide with delight, like a child in a sweetshop.
‘Oh my God!’
She grinned, rushing forward to pick up the first of an array of hats; a wide-brimmed lilac boater with a diamanté ribbon around the crown. She pulled off her cream beret and settled the new hat on her head, swishing from left to right as she stared at herself in the mirror, the crystals glinting in the overhead lights.
‘Want a photo?’
‘Yes please.’
She struck a pose, then switched the boater hat for a floppy pink hippie hat, pulling it down low over her eyes and peering out from under the brim straight into Fabien’s lens, laughing as he joined in with the game, pretending to be a celebrity photographer by crouching low, shooting from the left and then the right. Next, she swapped the hippie hat for a straw Panama hat, decorated with a sprig of feathers that made her think of the warm summer nights she’d spent on the beach in Sidmouth, picnicking with her friends.
‘Oh, look at this one! It’s adorable!’
Poppy picked up a pale grey cloche hat with a matching satin ribbon tied in the shape of a large bow on the lefthand side, and placed it on her head, staring in the mirror. It was perfect; soft, comfortable and beautifully crafted. Once again, she posed for Fabien to snap a couple of photographs, her hand resting on her waist, smiling broadly, tossing her head back in a gesture of exuberance, then, just for the sake of it, she performed a pirouette of delight, laughing at the feeling of elation such a simple action produced.
Thiswas the kind of sightseeing tour she liked!
Reluctantly, she placed the cloche hat back on its stand, tweaking it slightly to make sure it presented its best angle, then turned towards Fabien, her heart performing a somersault of desire when she saw the way he was looking at her.
‘Is that one your favourite?’
She laughed. ‘I love them all, but yes, I think it is.’
‘Then allow me to reunite you.’
Fabien stepped forward and liberated the hat from its stand and before Poppy could react, he was striding towards the cash desk. She dashed in his wake.
‘No, Fabien, that’s not—’
‘It’s a gift,’ said Fabien, his expression brooking no argument. ‘A souvenir from your Parisian adventure.’
‘Merci, merci beaucoup.’
‘Now, I think it’s time we ate lunch, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
***
When she was back at her studio, the proud owner of a gorgeous new hat that she was reluctant to remove, she felt as though she’d had a glimpse of what Paris was all about, not by staring at its famous monuments, but by simply experiencing what people who live there do on Sunday mornings. She felt invigorated, every one of her senses zinging with life, and she couldn’t wait to see Fabien again for their promised baking session when he finished his Monday night service at the bistro.
For the first time since she’d broken up with Drew, she had taken a risk and stepped outside her comfort zone, and by doing so she had experienced so much more than she would have done had she continued with her habit of surrounding herself with all-things safe and familiar.
More importantly, however, she had met someone who had the same passionate interest in food as she did, and who was happy to talk, at length, not only about his favourite recipes, but also to enquire about her own. Someone who cared enough to ensure that the tour he’d promised to take her on involved the things she loved, and for that she was truly grateful.