Chapter Eighteen
Poppy spent longer than usual getting ready for her night out with Hélène and Odette. As she had no idea what to expect, she had trouble deciding which outfit would move seamlessly from glamourous cocktail soirée to an evening of skydiving or horse-riding or knife-throwing – all of which she knew from experience weren’t beyond the realms of possibility – followed by the theatre with Fabien.
She settled on an emerald-green wrap-dress that fit her figure perfectly, added a chunky silver necklace, and stuffed a fold-away raincoat into her satchel as a back-up cover-all, should that be needed. She added a spritz of perfume and was about to leave her studio to head to the venue for the first part of that night’s entertainment when she paused, the conversation she’d had with Camille before leaving Patisserie Madeleine rotating through her mind.
She removed her phone and dashed off a quick email to her brother Bart, including screenshots of the negative reviews that had been posted online about Bistro Fabien, setting out her suspicions that they had been written by the same person – even though the posters purported to be different – and asking him whether he knew of a way those suspicions could be confirmed or discounted.
Happy that she had made a start on her investigation, she hooked the handles of her satchel over her shoulder and followed the directions Hélène had given her to Rue de Pontoisein the Latin Quarter, stopping outside an impressive Art Deco-style building that gave no clue as to what might be behind its red-brick and glass walls. She joined the melee of people heading up the steps, and when she walked through the doors, she performed a double-take, unable to keep her laughter at bay.
She couldn’t believe she was at a swimming baths.
But this was no ordinary swimming baths; this was a piece of Parisan history.
The large rectangular pool, crowned by a magnificent glass ceiling, was encircled by a two-tiered gallery of vintage changing cubicles, their facades and doors decorated in a rich sunflower-yellow colour and bordered by wrought-iron railings painted the same blue as the rippling water. Beautifully restored mosaics dotted the walls and floors, each one adhering to the same yellow and blue aesthetic, to create an updated, yet authentic, facility for the enthusiasts of aquatic sports in Paris.
That evening, the place had been transformed into a sort of mini auditorium, with a row of folding wooden chairs set out along the walkways of both galleries, most of which were already occupied. There was a sense of heightened anticipation in the air – along with the expected waft of chlorine – and the swirl of muted conversation mingled with soft classical music playing through the discretely placed speakers.
Poppy ran her eyes along the fifty or so people in the makeshift audience, but she couldn’t see Hélène or Odette, so she found a vacant seat on the first tier and sat down next to a woman who for some reason was wearing tennis whites. She scrambled around in her bag for her phone, but before she could compose a text to ask Hélène where she was, the music changed, indicating that the show was about to begin.
Moments later, a group of eight women in matching blue and yellow swimsuits and bathing hats filed into the arena and lined up along the edge of the pool in perfect synchronicity. As they took up position, Poppy exhaled a gasp of surprise when she realised that two of their number were Hélène and Odette, who, along with their teammates, proceeded to enter the water with poise and grace and perform an artistic aquatic dance, choreographed to the music, with co-ordinated flair and rhythm.
The whole performance was mesmerising; the swimmers’ routine was not just technically proficient, but also a pleasure to watch, like a ballet but in the water, with graceful set pieces interspersed with more acrobatic movements involving lifts, pirouettes, and a routine that reminded Poppy of the shapes created by a kaleidoscope she’d played with as a child.
She had no idea how they managed to hold their breath for so long under the water, and she realised that this wasn’t just one of the random hobbies that Hélène and Odette took part in, but something requiring a great deal of skill and commitment to do properly. Her admiration for her friends ballooned, and she was grateful she’d had the honour of being in the audience during one of their practice sessions.
Later, as they shared a glass of wine at a bar around the corner from La Piscine Pontoise, Poppy asked Hélène and Odette how long they had been involved in Synchronised Swimming. After informing her that the sport had been renamed Artistic Swimming in 2017 – a decision that had been met with a mixed reaction from those who participated – they told Poppy that they had been part of the swimming group for over forty years, which explained their obvious proficiency.
‘However, it’s only recently that we’ve been able to train at the legendary Piscine Pontoise,’ said Odette, her hair still immaculately coiffed despite having spent the last thirty minutes submerged in a chlorinated swimming pool. ‘As you probably noticed, the building has been newly renovated, and only re-opened its doors last December after an eleven million euro upgrade to include a state-of-the-art gymnasium and a squash court. Did you know, the famous Jacques Cousteau first tested his diving equipment in that very pool?’
Hélène smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm for their historic pool, before fixing Poppy with her steely gaze and changing the subject. ‘Olivier told me what happened at Bistro Fabien yesterday. Does Fabien have any idea who might be perpetrating these ridiculously childish charades?’
‘No, he doesn’t.’
‘I’m worried about him,’ murmured Hélène, twisting the stem of her wine glass between her thumb and fingers. ‘The light seems to have faded from his eyes. Can you talk to him, Poppy? I’m sure he’ll listen to you. I saw the way he looked at you when we dined together after the catwalk show; there’s a real connection between the two of you. Maybe you can persuade him that closing the bistro and returning to Nice is not the answer.’
‘Oh, I don’t know whether—’
‘Just try. Please?’
Hélène reached out to grasp Poppy’s hand, and she could see the distress in her landlady’s eyes so she nodded and assured her that she would speak to him that night after the theatre show, which she realised she would be late for if she didn’t leave immediately.
She exchanged cheek kisses with the two friends and dashed from the bar, taking the decision to hail a taxi rather than risk getting lost on the labyrinthine Métro system, which turned out to be prescient as she arrived at the Théatre des Nouveautés in the heart of Paris’s bustling theatre district with only minutes to spare before the comedian took to the stage.
‘Salut, Poppy!’
‘Salut, I’m sorry I’m late.’
‘You’re not. Come on, let’s find our seats.’
Fabien slipped his palm into hers and guided her into the crowded auditorium, pointing to a pair of plush red velvet seats that turned out to be at the end of the back row. No sooner had she sat down than the lights dimmed, and the heavy red curtains were drawn back to reveal a handsome guy dressed in black jeans and a black sweater who proceeded to open his one-man show entitled How to Become a Parisian in an Hour, a comedic take on the cultural differences between Parisians and those who were not fortunate enough to call the city their home.
To Poppy’s delight, the show was delivered from start to finish in English, and there was plenty of audience participation – and good-humoured targeting – all of which was taken in the spirit it was intended; to elicit laughter, of which there was plenty. She especially enjoyed the section relating to the confusion caused by the Paris Métro system! It was a unique experience, and one which she was grateful to share with Fabien, who, as a Frenchman born in Provence, did not escape the lampooning by the very talented comedian.
‘Did you enjoy that?’ he asked as they made their way into the foyer.
‘I loved it! I can’t remember when I’ve laughed so much. All of his observations were spot on, especially when he compared the differences between the jolly, upbeat customer service provided in the US to that on offer in Paris. I remember ordering a latte at a café in Montmartre last week, and the waiter gave me such a look of disgust. I mean, he actually rolled his eyes and tutted at me before declaring “non” and flouncing off to the kitchen. I thought I must have inadvertently insulted his grandmother!’
Fabien laughed. ‘I’m pleased you had fun.’
‘Oh, I did. Thank you so much for bringing me.’
‘De rein.’
When they finally emerged from the theatre into the cold night air, she took no persuading when Fabien suggested they stopped for a nightcap at a tiny bar sandwiched between an antiques shop and an art gallery. As they perched on a pair of tall wooden stools sipping their Cognacs, Poppy knew it was the perfect moment to talk to Fabien about the decision she and Camille had made earlier that day to engage in a bit of sleuthing.
However, for the first time in days, Fabien looked relaxed and happy. The shadows beneath his eyes were less pronounced after spending the evening in fits of laughter, the prescription for any temporary bout of melancholy, and the last thing she wanted to do was spoil the vibe. She knew he had a lot to deal with, and she didn’t want to contribute to his anxieties by informing him that she and Camille had decided to don their metaphorical deerstalkers and turn detective to discover who was behind the negative reviews and unwanted deliveries.
Now she thought about it, it was a ridiculous suggestion anyway, one which had very little chance of success, and could even do more harm than good. As soon as she saw Camille, she’d tell her not to bother investing in a magnifying glass just yet, or asking étienne to waste his time going back through his order book. As soon as she had made the decision, she felt better.
They drained their glasses and meandered along the cobbled streets of Le Marais, past the rainbow-coloured shops with achingly chic window displays and pocket-sized gated courtyards lit with twinkling fairy lights and patio heaters. It was almost midnight, yet the arrondissement bustled with people in no hurry to return home to their beds. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, the mellifluous cadence of their accents floating on the air as they paused to exchange kisses, their intimacy adding a romantic ambiance to the scene.
When they arrived at Hélène’s apartment building, Poppy paused on the step to extract her keys from her satchel, then turned towards Fabien, intending to thank him again for a wonderful evening, but when she saw the expression in his gold-flecked eyes, her heart skipped a beat. She inhaled a quick breath, catching a waft of his signature cologne, smiling when he reached up to gently brush away a stray strand of hair from her cheek, his gaze locked onto hers, the gesture causing a frisson of red-hot desire to zip through her body.
‘Poppy, I—’
But Poppy wasn’t interested in continuing their conversation. She stepped forward, sinking into Fabien’s waiting arms, relishing the warmth of his body radiating through his flimsy linen shirt, and at last, his lips were on hers, softly at first and then with more determination. She closed her eyes so she could savour every moment of their embrace, her heart pounding out a symphony of pleasure as Fabian slid his fingers around her neck to pull her closer, to kiss her more deeply.
Delicious tingles rippled through her veins, pulsating to the rhythm of her escalating passion, intensifying into a crescendo of pure elation that she was standing there, in Paris – the undisputed capital of romance – wrapped in the arms of the most wonderful, generous, caring man who was currently kissing her as though his life depended on it.
She had no idea how long they remained on the steps of her studio home, but when they finally drew apart, her knees felt a little weak and she struggled to calm her rampaging emotions. Her whole body was suffused with exhilarating joy, and she knew with absolutely certainty that whatever lay in their future, kissing Fabien right there, right then, was the perfect way to end a perfect evening together.
She couldn’t believe they had only known each other for a couple of weeks, and yet she felt as though she knew him, just like he knew her. Not only did they have a great deal in common, but they also seemed to occupy the same wavelength when it came to their views of the world, not to mention their comedy preferences, as evidenced by their joint reactions to the comedian that night.
She had never expected to form such a strong connection with someone while she was in Paris, especially after her declaration that she was taking a dating hiatus, but it had happened, and she was loving every minute she spent in Fabien’s company.
In Devon, falling in love after such a short period of time would be a crazy, reckless thing to do, but in Paris, the City of Love, it felt normal, inevitable even. For the first time in a long time, everything in her life was going swimmingly, and she was determined to embrace it.