Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, Poppy woke to the shrill sound of her alarm clock, and when she tried to push herself up from the comfort of her sofa-bed, she felt as though her bones were encased in concrete. Every muscle ached, the tips of her fingers were stinging from the numerous cuts she’d sustained during the tomato cook-a-thon, and her head was fuzzy from a restless night’s sleep that had featured too many images involving tomatoes.
With supreme effort, she managed to haul herself out of bed and into the bathroom, standing beneath the shower until the water ran cold, before drying her hair and preparing herself a coffee to kickstart her sluggish brain cells. If this was how she felt, she knew Fabien would be feeling even worse after having to deal with the aftermath of another upsetting incident at the bistro.
She didn’t know how things worked in Paris, but as this wasn’t the first time the bistro had been targeted in such a way, she wondered whether she should suggest that Fabien considered reporting the matter to the police. After all, the unwanted floral bouquets and food deliveries, not to mention the unwarranted reviews, were having a negative impact on his business, not only by discouraging people to eat there, but from forcing Fabien to close the place for a day while he dealt with an unexpected surplus of produce.
She finished her espresso, then checked her messages for what felt like the hundredth time, and when she saw there was still nothing from Holly, she couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer to find out if she had heard anything from Suzie. She selected her friend’s number and was surprised, and a little perturbed, when her call went to voicemail. Holly’s phone never went to voicemail.
What was going on?
First Suzie had dropped off the radar, and now Holly wasn’t answering calls. Poppy considered calling Suzie herself, but she knew that if she hadn’t spoken to Holly yet, then it was likely she didn’t want to speak to anyone. Did that mean the police had told her something shocking when she’d met them on Monday, and she was taking her time to come to terms with it before she shared the news?
Poppy’s stomach curdled.
While it was difficult to accept, could it have been an inside job after all? If that was the case, then it could only have been one of three people. As she knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t Suzie, that left Fran?ois and Carmen, people who had been Suzie’s friends as well as colleagues. Had one of them been arrested? Or maybe it had been both of them? Then she remembered that Carmen was in Australia and hadn’t been able to afford to fly back to meet with the police that week, which only meant one thing.
Poppy’s heart crashed against her chest as she struggled to corral her rampaging thoughts. She inhaled a long, slow breath, and as her heartrate calmed, she gave herself a stern talking to; there was no point speculating. She would hear the outcome of Suzie and Christos’ meeting with the police when they were ready to talk about it, and until then she would just have to be patient.
She checked her watch and realised that if she didn’t hurry, she would be late for her shift at the bistro. She grabbed her coat, tied Hélène’s colourful Hermès scarf around her neck and pulled on the cloche hat Fabien had bought for her at Galleries Lafayette. When she looked in the mirror, her spirits lifted, and she smiled. She looked different; not only had she acquired a selection of new clothes since she’d arrived in Paris, but she’d also made changes to her skincare and makeup routine, and she knew that Hélène would be proud of her attempt to be more Parisian.
On her way out, she paused in the foyer to send Fabien a quick text to ask if everything had gone smoothly at the Paris soup kitchen, and was shocked and saddened when he sent back a screenshot of another caustic review detailing the disgruntled diner’s dissatisfaction with the meal they’d had at Bistro Fabien. Whoever had written it clearly knew something about food, as they had dissected each dish they’d ordered, commenting on where the “inferior” chef had gone wrong, followed by a long and detailed explanation on how it should be done.
She tried to call Fabien, anxious to offer her support, but he didn’t answer so she headed straight to the bistro, knowing that he would be reeling from the blistering attack on his culinary talents, especially coming on top of the previous day’s tomato debacle. When she stepped through the door, she saw that instead of Fabien, it was Michel and Pascal who were serving breakfast that morning.
‘Hi, Pascal, where’s Fabien?’
‘He’s got a few things to sort out,’ said Pascal vaguely, for some reason avoiding her eyes.
‘Okay, I’ll try to speak to him later. Thanks.’
With everything that was going on, Poppy felt as though her head was about to explode, so she was grateful that Patisserie Madeleine was busier than usual that day. From the moment she stepped through the door, she and Camille were run off their feet dealing with a long stream of hungry customers, which meant she didn’t have time to worry about why Holly wasn’t answering her phone, whether Fran?ois was in some way involved in the robbery, or why Pascal had acted so strangely when she had asked him where Fabien was.
By the time the post-lunch lull came around, she was tired but delighted that for the first time she had managed to navigate a shift from start to finish completely in French, without having to ask for assistance from Camille. She helped herself to a much-needed coffee, accepted a slightly misshapen éclair from Camille – who was modelling an unusual outfit that seemed to have been made entirely from multi-coloured pompoms – and slid onto one of the wooden stools behind the counter.
‘So, have you told Olivier about the patisserie competition?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Camille, the competition is tomorrow!’ Poppy didn’t feel comfortable about keeping something so important from Olivier, so she decided to try a different tack. ‘Remember how you felt when you found out the day before the catwalk show that you had been selected to showcase one of your designs by one of the most celebrated fashion designers in Paris?’
‘Nervous, apprehensive, terrified, panic-stricken, all rolled into one.’
‘Exactly. Don’t you think Olivier will feel the same?’
‘But this is patisserie we’re talking about, not haute couture! And anyway, Olivier is a culinary genius who is capable of producing the most exquisite patisserie in the whole of Paris with his eyes shut and his wrists encased in plaster. As you can see, he doesn’t need hours and hours of practice to create perfection.’
Camille indicated the kaleidoscope of colourful pastries that were arranged in regimental lines in the glass case in front of them – pain aux raisins, mille-feuilles, madeleines, tarte citron meringuée, tarte au chocolat, flan, tarte Tatin – and Poppy had to admit that she did have a point. Olivier was a true maestro of his craft. Nevertheless, she still thought he would want as much notice as possible when his patisserie was going to be scrutinised by a panel of highly respected judges for whom, she assumed, patisserie was their life’s work.
‘Camille, I know you—’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.’
‘What kind of plan?’
Camille glanced over her shoulder to make sure neither Alain nor Olivier were lurking in the corner eavesdropping on their conversation, before scooting her stool closer to Poppy and lowering her voice for good measure.
‘I’m not going to tell him.’
‘What!?’
‘I’m going to submit a selection of the patisserie Olivier creates for the shop tomorrow.’
Poppy’s jaw dropped; she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
‘But… I thought it was a highly prestigious competition that Olivier is desperate to win?’
‘It is.’
‘And you’re going to enter a couple of random éclairs and a few macarons?’
‘Don’t you think that’s more authentic?’
‘Authentic?’
‘Yes. What I mean is that I want the judges to taste exactly what our regular customers get to enjoy day in, day out, and not something that has being primped and tweaked and moulded to the extreme, something that’s so utterly exquisite that no one feels comfortable eating it. I want to illustrate the fact that every single one of the pastries Olivier creates is a masterpiece in its own right and reflects his exceptional talent for consistently producing impeccable patisserie not just for a once-a-year competition, but for everyone who comes to Patisserie Madeleine. Patisserie is meant to be relished, not stared at like a portrait or a sculpture in an art gallery or a museum!’
Camille’s voice was full of indignation, and she was clearly adamant that her view was the right one. As Poppy didn’t know Olivier very well, she had no idea how he would feel about Camille’s plan. However, she did remember Camille telling her on her first day at Patisserie Madeleine that it was Olivier’s dream to win the award, and how upset he was that he couldn’t enter the competition that year because – in his opinion – he wasn’t at the top of his game, so she knew that it meant a great deal to him.
‘What did Olivier enter last year?’
‘A huge croquembouche in the shape of a three-dimensional Eiffel Tower created from over two hundred pale blue macarons. It was over a metre tall, every one of the three levels was delineated by a separate row of gold macarons, and the crowning glory was a huge star-shaped macaron decorated with edible gold glitter. The whole thing was truly magnificent, but Olivier didn’t win, wasn’t even in the top three, and do you know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because it was too forced, too artificial. It wasn’t the kind of thing that Olivier and Alain create here at Patisserie Madeleine, and I don’t think it’s what the judges were looking for. But Olivier wanted to wow them with his skills and undoubted flair, so he went all out to design something spectacular, and he was devastated when his talent wasn’t recognised as he had hoped.’
Two round dots of pink appeared in Camille’s cheeks as she tossed back the last of her coffee and popped a stray strawberry from the tarte aux fraises she’d just devoured into her mouth. Poppy had listened carefully to everything Camille had said, and while she understood her argument, after what she had been through with Drew, she loathed secrets and the life-changing impact keeping them could cause.
‘I still think it should be up to Olivier what he enters,’ she said gently.
‘But he’s not planning to enter anything this year, is he?’
‘That’s his prerogative, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t see what harm it can do.’
Poppy saw the stubbornness in her friend’s eyes, and she knew that whatever she said she wasn’t going to persuade Camille to change her mind. In a way, she admired her tenacity, her unwavering determination to stick to what she considered was the right thing to do, no matter what the potential consequences. Poppy had made her own views clear, and as she was only going to be there for another week, it really had nothing to do with her. And Camille was right about one thing; patisserie was made to be eaten.
‘Okay, if you need any help—’
‘Thanks, Poppy,’ said Camille, breaking into a broad smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she flung her arms around Poppy’s neck and gave her a grateful hug. ‘I have to take the entry over to the hotel where the competition is being judged by eleven a.m. tomorrow morning, so I’ll need you to cover for me here at the patisserie while I’m gone. Is that okay?’
‘Of course. When will they announce the winner?’
‘It’s usually the next day.’
‘And do you know who the judges are?’
‘There’s a different panel of judges every year and their identities are kept secret until after the winner is announced so no one can lobby them, or worse, bribe them. You look surprised, but it’s been done, and on more than one occasion. Olivier and Alain’s father was on the panel a couple of years before he passed away, and Hélène says it was one of the toughest challenges he’d ever had to deal with. Did you speak to Fabien this morning?’
Again, Poppy was blindsided by the swift change in the topic of conversation.
‘No, but I got a text from him.’
‘About the review?’
‘Yes. Why do people write such hurtful and completely baseless nonsense?’
‘Pascal sent me a copy of it, too, and I think it’s the most upsetting review they’ve had so far. The person who wrote it really went into detail, didn’t they? Not just about the food, but the quality of the ingredients, as well as techniques Fabien has used for years to great acclaim. It was also the first time they mentioned the “brusque” service, which Pascal is really baffled about. Understandably, he’s a little offended by the comments, but he said that this time Fabien has really taken them to heart.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s talking about closing the bistro sooner rather than later and heading back to Nice. It’s such a shame, because until those reviews started popping up, the bistro was doing really well. It would be okay if the food was dreadful, and the reviewers are in some way justified in what they’ve written, but it’s totally not true. Fabien is an amazing chef, and his food is worthy of a Michelin star, if not two!’
Camille’s voice had risen an octave in her defence of Fabien and his cuisine.
‘Does Pascal have any idea who might be doing it?’
‘I asked him that same question. He says that he and Michel have tried to work out which of their diners could have been so dissatisfied with their experience at Bistro Fabien that they felt the need to vent their displeasure so vehemently online, but everyone in the tour parties they’ve been catering for over the last week or so has been effusive in their praise, and their tips reflected that. Whoever it is, I’d like to look them in the eye and tell them exactly what I think of them!’
‘Me, too!’
‘I hate it when people write such outrageous lies and get away with it.’
What Camille had said reminded Poppy of something Holly had said to her about what had happened to Suzie after the robbery. The paparazzi had stalked her and her colleagues relentlessly for weeks, and when they couldn’t get a suitably sensational story from them, they simply wrote what they thought would excite the most interest in their readership. However, not all journalists were rottweilers. Nathan’s dogged determination to get to the truth of what had happened that day had been the catalyst to Suzie finally getting the answers she deserved, and Poppy experienced a sudden flash of inspiration.
‘I’ve had an idea.’
‘What kind of an idea?’
‘Why don’t we do a bit of digging.’
‘Digging?’
Camille screwed up her nose, clearly struggling to understand the French word Poppy had used, or the way she had pronounced it, or why on earth Poppy had suggested a stint of gardening. Poppy scoured her brain for another word that would adequately describe what she had in mind, and when she did, she grinned at the sparkle of excitement that appeared in Camille’s hazel-coloured eyes.
‘Sleuthing?’
‘Yes, but we need to discuss it with Fabien first,’ she said firmly, making sure her meaning was clear. ‘But instead of grumbling about what’s going on, maybe we can be a little more proactive. As well as speaking to the delivery guys, Fabien could maybe call the actual suppliers of the tomatoes, and the beverages and all the other items that have arrived at the bistro that he didn’t order. And perhaps you could ask étienne if he can help.’
‘étienne? How… Oh, the bouquet!’
‘Yes. Did he speak to the person who ordered it on the phone? Was it a man or a woman? Did he recognise their voice? How did they pay? Is there anything else he can think of that might help us to identify them?’
‘You think it’s the same person doing all this?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Now that I think about it, I think you might be right.’
‘When Fabien first told me about the reviews, he mentioned that they all seemed to be written in the same way, using similar language, similar punctuation, similar descriptions, even though they were purportedly posted by different reviewers. My eldest brother, Bart, is a computer whizz – he works for some super-smart cyber security firm in London – so I might ask him if he could take a look at the reviews and see if he can come up with anything that might help us to identify who posted them.’
‘How exciting!’ Camille declared, jumping from her stool to strike a pose, brandishing an imaginary magnifying glass. ‘I can’t wait to get started! We’ll be like the female versions of Inspector Clouseau!’
Poppy laughed at the reference to the bungling French detective who pursued the Pink Panther jewel thief without success, gathering injuries and leaving a litany of mayhem in his wake.
‘I was hoping we would be more like Jules Maigret, or—’
‘And I have the perfect outfit! My cream raincoat with tiger-print cuffs and collar, and matching trilby, which I can pair with my red patent leather ankle boots and gloves! Oh, and I remember seeing a huge silver magnifying glass for sale at the bookshop! No serious detective should be without a trusty magnifying glass in their pocket, don’t you think? So, when are you going to talk to Fabien?’
‘Later tonight,’ said Poppy. ‘I’ve been invited to an early evening soirée with Hélène and Odette at somewhere called the Pontoise—’
‘La Piscine Pontoise?’
‘Yes, that’s it, and then Fabien’s taking me to a theatre show.’
‘Well, have fun.’
Camille gave her a look she couldn’t decipher, but before she could ask her what she meant, the door was flung open, and the patisserie’s afternoon rush started. It didn’t stop until five o’clock came round, and Alain appeared to offer to man the counter with Camille so that Poppy could leave a few minutes early to change for her evening out.
Like Camille, Alain had a knowing twinkle in his eye, and she suspected the soirée his mother had organised for them wouldn’t comprise of an elegant supper party in a sumptuous Parisian salon with mouthwatering canapés, free-flowing Champagne, and Michelin-star-level food enjoyed at a table dressed with crystal glasses, Limoges china and silver candelabras.