Chapter Thirteen
It had been a morning filled with fun and friends, as well as experiencing an activity she would never have thought to choose herself, and as she made her way to Patisserie Madeleine for her afternoon shift, she felt energised and ready to tackle anything. She pushed open the door, surprised to see Alain behind the counter until she remembered that Camille had asked for the afternoon off to put the finishing touches to the design she intended to launch down Pierre’s runway on Tuesday evening.
She headed into the kitchen to hang up her coat, and for what felt like the tenth time that day, before storing her phone in her satchel, she checked again for messages from Holly, hoping to see that she’d spoken to Suzie or Christos. Unfortunately, there was nothing yet, although she had to admit, it was still early in the day, not to mention the fact that the UK was an hour behind France.
The afternoon rushed by, the constant stream of customers making it impossible to have any kind of meaningful conversation with Alain or Olivier. However, she utilised the time to run through which recipes she wanted to experiment with that evening at the bistro – both English and French – and when she’d settled on the final two, she emailed a list of the ingredients to Fabien and received at smiling emoji back.
She was looking forward to her baking experiment immensely.
After staying for a couple of hours beyond her shift to cover for Camille, she dashed home to freshen up, and arrived at Bistro Fabien just as Pascal and another waiter – a tall, gangly man with a shock of red hair and freckles who Pascal introduced to her as Michel – were serving desserts, coffees and digestifs. She rolled up her sleeves and helped the two men hand round the Cognacs, and when Fabien appeared to tell them they could leave earlier than expected, they couldn’t get out of the door fast enough.
Fabien turned the sign round to Fermé, locked the door, and then deposited the usual kisses on Poppy’s cheeks. ‘Okay, now we have the place to ourselves, let’s have some fun!’
‘Why don’t I make the English recipe and you make the French recipe?’ Poppy suggested. ‘Then we can decide how to merge the two together to create the perfect combination that will wow everyone who comes to enjoy afternoon tea at my English Garden Café.’
‘Great idea.’
Standing side-by-side, they set to work preparing their respective ingredients, then in almost choreographed synchronicity, they made their pastry bases – shortcrust for Poppy, pate sucrée for Fabien – before turning to the fillings of their respective versions of apple tarts. Poppy had chosen these specific recipes because Devon was famous for its many varieties of apples, from Cox’s Orange Pippin and Gala to the more unusual Pendragon and Pig’s Nose – an apple she was very keen to try out – and of course, the French made the wonderful tartes des pommes, and she knew the two would blend together well.
She intended to make a custard-style filling and she had asked Fabien to make a frangipane filling – with a generous slosh of Calvados. Once finished, they would taste-test them both to see how they could best merge the two. As they sieved, blended, rolled, trimmed, whipped and sliced, their conversation flowed, punctuated by laughter, snippets of hard-won advice and lots of comic anecdotes from their time spent in various kitchens.
Just as she had the previous day, Poppy felt totally at ease in Fabien’s company, as though they occupied the same wavelength, both of them knowing what the other needed before they asked – the perfect culinary partnership. When their tarts were finally baking in the oven, Fabien opened a bottle of red wine, poured them each a glass and raised his in a toast.
‘You are a very talented pastry chef, Poppy.’
‘And you are an amazing patissier, Fabien.’ She smiled, taking a sip of the rich velvety wine that slipped so smoothly down her throat, spreading warmth through her body as it made its way southwards. ‘Why don’t you enter the patisserie competition at the end of the week?’
‘It’s very prestigious. Only those at the very top of their profession take part. Why? Is Olivier planning to enter?’
Poppy hesitated. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Of course.’
‘Olivier refused to put his name forward this year because he thinks his broken wrists will affect his performance, and he doesn’t think there’s any point entering unless he’s at the top of his game. So… Camille filled in the paperwork and submitted it on his behalf…. and she doesn’t plan on telling him until the day before the contest so as not to cause him any stress.’
‘Hmm, I’m not sure how I would feel about that.’
‘What if Camille’s entered your name, too?’ Poppy teased.
‘I hope not! My culinary adventure in Paris hasn’t exactly turned out how I expected,’ Fabien said, swirling the wine around in his glass. ‘I haven’t said anything to Pascal, but after everything that’s happened over the last couple of months, I’m seriously thinking of calling it a day and going back to Nice. When I came here, I wanted to do something different, attract a more diverse clientele, experiment with new ingredients, new recipes, keeping things fresh, always moving forward.’ Fabien paused to swallow the contents of his glass. ‘I also needed to get away for a while.’
‘What do you mean?’
Fabien allowed a few seconds to slip by while he refilled his glass, and Poppy could see from the slight tremor of his hand that his emotions were near to the surface. She remained silent, wanting to give him the space and time to gather his thoughts without interruption.
‘My parents never wanted me to be a chef, and for years I lived with the feeling that I had let them down by pursuing something that made me so happy. However, when I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu, they finally realised that I was serious about making cooking my career, and they supported me as I rose through the ranks of the culinary field from commis chef to chef de partie, to sous chef. It was when I got my position as chef de cuisine at Le Soliel in Nice that they started to question my choices again.’
‘Why?’
Fabien sighed and sat back in his chair, his lips tight.
‘Le Soliel is expensive, which means only the very wealthy or those dining with the very wealthy can eat there. The restaurant is in a beautiful location, with the most stunning view of the coastline, and it’s frequented mainly by celebrities, politicians and social media influencers who come to be seen there as much as sample the food, if not more so in some instances. Initially that didn’t bother me. I loved showcasing the fabulous food Provence is famous for, and with an unlimited budget, I could invest in as many high-end ingredients and complicated techniques as I wanted.’
‘Caviar?’
‘And lobster, crab, scallops, foie gras, saffron, gold leaf… well, you get the picture. I loved the freedom I had to create anything I wanted, but things changed when the restaurant was bought by a “consortium of investors” and they started to make demands about what went on the menu, and insisting on minimal changes to the dishes we offered on the basis of “if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it”. While that irked me – after all, Le Soleil’s original clientele came to the restaurant for innovation and familiarity washes away the sparkle – I decided to go with it, until I had a disagreement with one of the owners at the beginning of the year and something inside me changed.’
‘What happened?’
‘To be honest, it wasn’t anything particularly huge, but it brought home to me what my parents had been saying to me ever since I told them that my dream was to own and run my own restaurant.’ Fabien drained his glass, filled it up again, and took another sip. ‘I love my parents; they are amazing. They’re hardworking, thoughtful, empathetic, determined, inspiring, and all-round good people.
‘They both come from ordinary backgrounds, and they were both the first in their respective families to go to university – the Sorbonne, no less – which is where they met and fell in love and formulated their plans to make the world a better place. It’s a path they have stuck to for the last thirty years as they pursued their careers as humanitarian lawyers, travelling to some of the most desperate parts of the world to collect evidence that will hopefully bring perpetrators of the most heinous crimes to justice. Can you imagine what they thought when all their son aspired to do was cook food for rich and powerful people in the film industry?’
‘I’m sure they are proud of you, Fabien,’ said Poppy softly.
‘It took me years to understand their reservations about my chosen profession, but that night early this year when I had a confrontation with the owner of Le Soliel was like a lightbulb moment. When Jacques asked me to eject a table of six patrons – friends of a close friend of mine who I knew had saved for months to come to Le Soliel for a fiftieth birthday celebration – just so one of his fellow superyacht owners could bring his new girlfriend and her entourage to the restaurant because they’d heard there was a celebrity photographer dining with us that evening, I finally realised the kind of people I was working for and catering to.
‘I tried hard to put the incident behind me – we’d had to cancel many bookings in the past, and of course, would have to do so in the future – but it had planted a seed of disillusionment in my head that grew and grew over the next couple of months into what turned out to be an insurmountable problem.’
Fabien swallowed down hard on his rising emotions and was about to continue when he leapt from his stool and dashed into the kitchen, pulling open the oven door just in time to remove their apple pies before they were caramelised to a crisp. A mouthwatering aroma of warm, buttery pastry filled the room as he set them to cool on a wire rack, then returned to his seat next to Poppy at the bar and met her gaze with a humourless smile.
‘Another factor in my new and unexpected journey of self-discovery was that things had started to become a little… intense with my girlfriend, Léa. She’s a model and an actress, and she was always really keen to be seen partying with the right people in the right places, one of which, of course, was Le Soleil. So, when I told her how I was feeling after what had happened with Jacques, and how desperate I was to break free of the restraints he and the restaurant’s other owners had introduced, she struggled to understand what I was talking about.
‘I reminded her of the conversations we’d had when we first met and we’d talked long into the night about our hopes and dreams for the future, when she had told me she wanted to be an actress and I’d told her I wanted to open a small restaurant where I could not only cook exactly what I wanted, but also ensure the food was accessible to everyone.’
‘It’s a dream we share.’
Poppy smiled, but she knew Fabien’s thoughts were elsewhere and that he was determined to get the full story out in the hope that it would deliver some kind of understanding, solace maybe.
‘Unfortunately, a few weeks later, when I told Léa that I’d found the perfect place in Paris to launch my bistro – and how excited I was about being within touching distance of achieving a dream I’d harboured since I was able to hold a spoon – she told me that she thought it was a risky endeavour with a high chance of failure, and that failure was something she couldn’t be associated with. I tried to explain that it was something I had to do, no, something I needed to do, but she said that if I went to Paris, our relationship was over, and… well, I haven’t seen or heard from her since I came to Paris in May.’
Fabien paused, fingering the stem of his wine glass, his face filled with resignation.
‘I’m sorry, Fabien.’
‘Looking back, I think our relationship had been floundering for a while, and I don’t blame Léa at all for wanting to stay in Nice. It was selfish of me to expect her to give up her comfortable life there to come to Paris with me. In my defence, I did spend a lot of time researching the film and TV industry, and I tried to reassure her that opportunities were even more plentiful here in Paris than they were on the riviera, so she would be able to stretch her acting muscle as far as she wanted, but she wasn’t interested. In fact, she was angry with me for even suggesting that she changed direction, which I completely understand. So we split, and it turns out Léa was right. Bistro Fabien is a failure, and it looks like I’ll be heading back to Nice before the end of the year, begging for my old job back at Le Soleil.’
Poppy heard the catch of emotion in Fabien’s voice, and she reached over to give his hand a gentle squeeze of support. However, she regretted her gesture when Fabien met her eyes and asked his next question.
‘Is there someone waiting for you back home in Devon, Poppy?’
Despite the fact that Fabien had told her about his relationship with Léa, the thought of sharing what had happened between her and Drew made her feel nauseous. Even now, a year later, she still found it difficult to put into words what he’d done, mainly because she struggled to understand why he’d done it in the first place.
‘No, there isn’t. I haven’t been in a relationship for a while. I’ve had a couple of dates with friends of my brothers from the rugby club, or the tennis club, or the cricket club, but for one reason or another none of them worked out.’
Fabien held her gaze for a moment, and she could tell that he knew she was holding back on something, something that had caused her immense pain, that had turned her life upside down and still had an effect on her willingness to form new relationships. Fortunately, he also realised that now was not the right time to press her on it.
‘Okay, shall we taste our masterpieces of culinary art?’
Poppy grinned, her spirits lifting as she followed Fabien into the kitchen. ‘I can’t wait.’
They spent the next thirty minutes critiquing what they had created, analysing the flavours and textures, suggesting improvements and celebrating the successes, laughing at the failures. She asked Fabien for a box so she could take a selection home for Hélène and Odette as a thank you for taking her to her first fencing lesson that morning, and when he passed one to her, his hand brushed against hers, sending a zing of attraction shooting out to her fingertips.
An audible gasp escaped from Poppy’s mouth, and when she glanced back at Fabien, she realised that he’d experienced the same reaction as she had. He hesitated for a moment, then took a step towards her and paused again, the waft of his cologne lingering in the air between them as he waited for her response. He was so close she could feel his soft breath caressing her cheek, sending her senses into overdrive.
She smiled and a second later his lips met hers, a mere graze, causing the pleasurable tingle that had started in the depths of her body to balloon into a scorching sizzle, until he pulled her into his arms and kissed her properly. Desire exploded like an ignited firework, spiralling out to every extremity as she reached up to slide her palm around his neck to draw him closer, relishing every moment of their passionate embrace.
She had no idea how long they remained there, surrounded by the fragrant fruits of their gastronomic labours, but when they reluctantly drew apart, breathless, smiling, she felt elated, exhilarated, as though her feet were floating a few inches from the ground. There was no awkwardness, no regret, no stilted conversation, just a mutual delight in their togetherness as they tidied the kitchen with practised efficiency, turned out the lights, and locked up the bistro for the night.
Even though it was only a few steps away, Fabien insisted on escorting her back to her apartment, his arm linked through hers, murmuring about the recipes they’d created that night and how he could see the two would blend well together if they added a splash of vanilla to the filling and a few flakes of toasted almonds to the top.
Everywhere Poppy looked there were couples just like them, strolling along the street, hand-in-hand, chatting about their day or simply enjoying each other’s company. At the pavement café on her right, a couple shared a late-night bottle of Bordeaux, their heads bent forward, oblivious to everyone and everything apart from each other; to her left, a younger couple had paused beneath the twinkling branches of one of Rue Saint-Andre’s trees to exchange goodnight kisses.
There was an underlying thrum of togetherness, of romance, of undisguised passion. It was clear that the Parisians had no qualms about showing their love for each other, that mutual attraction was something to be celebrated, not hidden behind closed doors, and Poppy finally understood why Paris was labelled the most romantic city in the world. She was delighted to be a part of it.