Chapter Sixteen
When Poppy strode down the Rue Saint-André the following day, she could barely contain her joy. She was thrilled for Camille, and she knew Jean-Claude Barbier had made the best choice for his potential new protégé. She couldn’t wait to see what her talented friend would one day create for her own catwalk show, with everyone who’s anyone in the fashion industry sitting in the front row marvelling at the creativity on display.
The only cloud to dampen her mood was that she still hadn’t heard from Holly. She wanted to call her again, but she knew her friend had promised to contact her as soon as she had any news, so she just needed to be patient. Nevertheless, she couldn’t prevent her mind from conjuring up a multitude of dire scenarios, and when the next one came spinning into her head – that they’d arrested Suzie, locked her in a cell, and confiscated her mobile phone – she knew she needed to calm down and get herself another coffee.
She treated herself to a double espresso, hoping the kick of caffeine would douse her anxiety, and she took her time to savour every mouthful as she watched the world go by. Feeling better, she continued on her journey towards the patisserie, smiling broadly when she spotted Camille outside the florist’s shop, deep in conversation with étienne. She was thrilled that he was finally showing an interest in her friend, until she drew closer and saw the look of alarm written across his face.
‘Oh, Poppy, there you are!’ Camille exclaimed, rushing towards her, her face swathed in anxiety of her own. ‘I was just on my way over to your studio. Olivier has said that it’s okay for us to have the day off so we can help Fabien out.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Hasn’t Fabien called you?’
‘No, I don’t think…’
Poppy rummaged in her satchel for her phone, and to her surprise she’d received three missed calls in the time it had taken her to order and consume her coffee, two from Fabien and one from Camille.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Let’s go. Fabien needs all the help he can get.’
Camille sprinted down the street towards Bistro Fabien, and to Poppy’s astonishment, étienne locked the door of his flower shop and dashed after her, leaving Poppy to follow in their wake, confusion swirling. When she arrived at the bistro, she was shocked to see that there were no customers sitting outside enjoying a coffee and croissant, and – even more worryingly as it was almost nine a.m. – that the Fermé sign was still dangling on the front door.
‘Camille, please—!’
But Camille had already disappeared through the door, with étienne close behind, and when Poppy stepped over the threshold, she didn’t know what to expect. To her relief, there were no stacks of random beverage crates or enormous bouquets of unwanted flowers, just Pascal and his friend Michel standing next to the bar, their jaws clenched, their expressions stony.
‘Poppy!’
Fabien emerged from the kitchen, dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt instead of his white chef’s jacket, his dark hair dishevelled, his eyes filled with a mixture of anger and bewilderment. He strode straight towards her and pulled her into a bear hug before depositing the usual kisses on her cheeks. To her dismay, she could feel him trembling, and a squirm of panic started its journey from her stomach to her chest.
‘Fabien? What’s going on?’
Fabien released her so he could greet Camille and étienne, and, desperate to know what had happened, she glanced across at Pascal who simply shook his head and remained tight-lipped.
‘Let me show you what Pascal and Michel discovered on the doorstep when they arrived to open the bistro at six o’clock this morning.’
Fabien marched back to the kitchen and held the door open so they could all file in. Poppy gasped, her hand flying to her lips as she, Camille and étienne came to an abrupt halt, staring with incredulity at the dozens and dozens of wooden crates that had been piled onto every available surface. There was a faint tang of sweet acidity floating on the air that Poppy recognised at the same time as she realised that the crates were crammed to bursting with freshly harvested tomatoes.
‘I… I take it you didn’t order these?’
‘No, of course not.’
Fabien ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes filled with bafflement as he surveyed the contents of his kitchen. There were tomatoes everywhere; on the worktops, on the shelves, on the floor, even in the sink, and while most of them were still intact, some had been squashed or crushed on their journey from the front door to the kitchen. When Poppy caught Pascal’s eye, she was distressed to see that tears had gathered along his lower lashes, and that Michel’s fists were clenched so hard his knuckles had turned white.
Everyone erupted into high-octane French at once, their voices escalating as each person tried to express their shock at what they were looking at. Poppy had no way of following what was being said, but she didn’t expect them to switch to English just for her benefit. So, she concentrated on getting her breathing under control, and as her heartrate calmed from gallop to trot, she tried again to tune into what was being discussed. After a few minutes, she realised that the conversation comprised of a barrage of questions, so she decided to ask one of her own.
‘Do you have any idea who’s doing this?’
Fabien shook his head, and so did Pascal and Michel.
‘If it’s some kind of practical joke, then it’s a disgraceful waste of good produce,’ said Camille, her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. Poppy had been so upset by the events that she hadn’t noticed the outfit her friend was wearing that day, but even her smock dress with appliqué Champagne bottles sewn across the chest and corks flying around the sleeves and hemline in a celebratory nod to her success couldn’t raise a smile that morning. ‘What are you going to do, Fabien? I’m no expert, but I think it’ll take weeks to work your way through all these tomatoes. I’ll ask Olivier and Alain if they can take some, but I can tell you now that we don’t use a lot of them at the patisserie.’
‘Thanks, Camille, and I agree with you. It’s a senseless and irresponsible act, and whoever did this is not only a complete moron, but they’ve shown a blatant disregard for the importance of conserving our precious resources by ordering only what we need, no more, no less. It makes me both angry and sad because most of these tomatoes will be rotten before we can use them in the bistro.’
‘I agree!’ said Camille, red dots of indignation appearing on her cheeks.
‘Me too!’ said Pascal, surreptitiously wiping his cheek with the back of his hand.
Poppy also agreed with what Fabien had said. Throughout her time at the Boathouse Bistro, Kath had been a constant advocate of minimising waste, changing the menu regularly so they could make use of any ingredients they might otherwise have had to throw away. In her own gentle way, she would remind both Poppy and Beckie how fortunate they were to have enough food in their cupboards to enjoy a nourishing meal, unlike many around the world, as well as on their doorstep in Devon.
She wondered what Kath would say if she could see Bistro Fabien’s kitchen at that moment, and suddenly, inspiration hit. She knew exactly what to say and do. Before she had chance to think it through, she blurted it out – in a long stream of English. Everyone stopped talking and stared at her, then stared at each other as they tried to work out what she’d said, so she repeated it, this time in French.
‘Why don’t we make soup?’
‘Soup?’
‘Yes.’
She saw Pascal look at her as though she had gone completely mad. ‘What we have here will probably make over a hundred litres of soup, Poppy! We have a maximum of twenty-four covers a night, which means we’ll probably be serving it until Christmas.’
‘That’s true, unless we donate it.’
‘Donate it?’
Poppy wondered if she’d got the right French word, but she pressed on.
‘My friend Kath, who owns the bistro I work at in Devon, has a great recipe for tomato soup. It’s very popular at this time of year with people calling in for something heartwarming after a vigorous walk on the beach or along the coastal path. She makes a huge batch of it and takes what’s left to the town’s soup kitchen and, alongside the other volunteers, she serves it to those in need with a crusty roll and a cheerful smile. She offers a listening ear for anyone who wants that, too.’
‘Poppy, that’s a wonderful idea!’
Fabien’s demeanour transformed immediately from abject misery at the predicament he’d found himself in when he’d arrived at Bistro Fabien that morning, to animated enthusiasm. His dark brown eyes sparkled with excitement as he reached for a tattered leather journal stored on the shelf above the fridge.
‘I have a recipe my grandmother created over sixty years ago for our annual fête de village. We can recreate that. And I already support Serve the City: Paris, so we can donate what we make to them. What do you think?’
A roar of approval rolled around the kitchen and while Pascal headed to the bar to organise coffee for them all, the rest of them pulled on aprons and spent what remained of the morning and the whole of the afternoon slicing, chopping, stirring, blending and funnelling Fabien’s grandmother’s own-recipe soup into containers ready to deliver to the soup kitchen. There were regular breaks for coffee, and a fabulous lunch – fluffy French omelettes with fresh herbs and crusty bread – which Fabien whipped up in seconds, and of course, several bottles of wine to wash it down with, followed by more coffee.
The six of them worked together in perfect synchronicity, the swirl of friendly banter keeping everyone’s spirits high. Camille filled Pascal and Michel in on the details of the catwalk show, étienne told them about the bridal bouquet and posies he’d done for a celebrity wedding where the bride’s mother had demanded that every single flower should be white, even the stems, and Michel had them in stitches with stories from that week’s classes at Le Cordon Bleu where a well-known chef had inadvertently set fire to his hat and had reached for a bottle of Champagne to extinguish the flames.
However, their jovial camaraderie wasn’t enough to prevent Poppy’s thoughts from constantly scooting back to the elephant in the room, and she knew that Fabien was thinking exactly the same. His friends were clearly taking care to avoid dealing with the subject in an effort to keep his spirits up until their soup-making activities were complete, but the unspoken questions still lingered in their midst.
Who had done this, and why?
Camille and étienne were the first to bid them à bient?t, destined for an early dinner at a little café in Montmartre that apparently sold the most amazing crêpes. After making sure the kitchen was returned to its pristine glory, Pascal accepted Michel’s invitation to hang out at a popular music venue on the left bank with a bunch of his student friends before heading to a nightclub he recommended, and finally Fabien was able to lock the bistro’s door and pull down the blinds.
Poppy dropped onto one of the barstools while Fabien poured them both a glass of wine from a bottle that Pascal had left open on the bar, the smooth elixir spreading warmth through her veins and helping her to relax after the physically and emotionally draining day they’d all had. Fabien took a generous gulp from his glass, then smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he thanked her for the part she’d played in turning something that was bordering on malicious into something good, something that would make a difference to the people who needed it most.
‘De rein.’ Poppy grinned.
‘I’ve spoken to Davide, a friend I met at the soup kitchen the last time I volunteered there, and he suggested we store the soup in the fridge overnight, then head over to the kitchen first thing in the morning.’ Fabien laughed. ‘He also said he’d have next month’s volunteer sign-up sheet ready for me, too. Shall we have a nightcap? I have a bottle Cognac that I keep hidden from diners for when I need a little pick-me-up after a busy day in the kitchen, and we’ve certainly had that!’
Poppy was about to accept, keen to spend more time alone with Fabien, and maybe enjoy a repeat of the kisses they had shared when they’d enjoyed their baking marathon, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. However, when she met his gaze and saw the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes, she changed her mind and declined, citing her own tiredness instead.
Fabien nodded, clearly relieved by her considerate response, and after turning off the lights and making doubly sure the door was locked, he insisted on walking her back to Hélène’s apartment building where they said a brief goodnight without any of the heart-stoppingly passionate kisses of the previous two nights.
Poppy remained on the doorstep for a few minutes, watching him walk down the street to his own studio apartment, his shoulders slumped, his head bent low, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. He had obviously put on a brave face in front of his friends, grateful for their support and generous assistance, but it was clear what had happened weighed heavily on his mind and Poppy wished there was more she could do to help.
As she climbed the stairs to her studio, she realised that she had been so involved in the chaos at the bistro that day, that she had forgotten about her anxiety about Suzie. She checked her phone to see if there had been any messages, but there was nothing, and she couldn’t contain her patience any longer. She sent a quick text to Holly asking if there was an update, and when she simply text back “not yet” along with a whole line of “worried face” emojis, she knew her friend was just as concerned about Suzie’s lack of communication as she was.
When Poppy finally slipped between the crisp cotton sheets of her sofa-bed, so much was bombarding her brain that she thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep, but within seconds she was trundling down sleep’s superhighway dreaming of Hélène and Odette standing in the middle of a field using long, thin swords to pierce rows and rows of plump, ripe tomatoes to create an unusual twist on the recipe for kebabs.