Chapter Twenty One
Poppy knew Fabien would be busy at the bistro until later that evening, so after sending him a text to ask him to meet her for a drink when he’d finished his shift, she decided to treat herself to a couple of hours immersed in all-things bibliographic. The calm tranquillity that seemed to permeate the air at LibrairieJuliette was the perfect antidote to what had been a very stressful day, although she had been thrilled to receive an upbeat message back from Suzie, thanking Poppy for her support and assuring her that she was “doing fine”.
As usual, she spent the first ten minutes browsing the cookery book section, debating whether she could afford another book on foraging for food in the French hedgerows. However, instead of scanning through the book for recipes she could adapt, she had a surprise urge to revisit her novel. So, she found a comfortable leather armchair in the Military History section, removed her precious notebook from her satchel, and to her surprise the words started coming straight away, her pen speeding across the paper as the story continued to unfold.
As time went on, more and more ideas bombarded her from all angles, and she was barely able to write them down fast enough. It was a wonderful feeling; an indication that her long-held dream had been worth waiting for.
‘Hi, Poppy, it’s good to see you again.’
She smiled at Stéphane who had once again chosen to greet her in English. Her earlier reticence about meeting him after their whirlwind tour of Paris’s tourist hotspots the previous week had evaporated because she had no intention of repeating it, and in the unlikely event he offered his services, she knew she would have the confidence to gently, but firmly, decline.
‘You too, Stéphane.’
‘What are you writing?’
‘Oh, just a few thoughts on my stay in Paris.’
‘So it’s a diary?’
‘Erm, yes, something like that.’
Poppy didn’t want to disclose the fact that she was writing a novel because she was just getting used to it herself. Also, she had yet to work out how she would answer any follow-up questions, such as what it was about, why she’d chosen to write in that genre, and whether it was based on anyone she knew. She returned to her notebook before realising that Stéphane was still standing in front of her, clearly on the verge of saying something else.
‘I like to write, too.’
‘Do you keep a diary?’
‘No, no, it’s more… well, journalistic. Short, observational pieces about the world around us, commentary on the social and political issues of the day, and the occasional book review thrown in for good measure.’ Stéphane paused, his eyes flicking across to the window that looked out onto the street beyond, before he met her gaze. ‘étienne told me that you’d taken a tour of Paris with the chef from Bistro Fabien.’
She wasn’t sure why Stéphane had felt the need to bring that up, or how she should respond without causing offence. She tried to decipher the expression on his face – a mixture of annoyance, disbelief, and curiosity – and even though she knew she was quite at liberty to sightsee around Paris with whomsoever she chose, she decided to take the more conciliatory road.
‘Yes, that’s right. Paris is an amazing city, and there’s so much to see that I didn’t want to miss out on anything.’ She smiled. ‘You’re so lucky to call it your home, Stéphane.’
‘Well, it’s not really my home.’
‘Oh, I thought—’
‘I live here, sure, but it’s not my home.’
‘So where is home?’
‘A small village outside Cannes. Ah, excuse me, Poppy, I have a customer. Okay, so… if you want to grab another coffee before you head back to Devon, let me know, yes?’
‘That’s really kind of you, Stéphane.’ Poppy paused, realising that when it actually came to turning his offer down, it was a lot harder than she’d anticipated. She decided to go with something vague and non-committal. ‘Thank you, I will.’
Stéphane nodded and went to assist an elderly couple who were looking for books by émile Zola, and after telling them that the author was one of his favourites, he guided them towards the fiction section on the other side of the bookshop.
To Poppy’s dismay, the interruption had severed her earlier train of literary exuberance, so she removed her phone from her satchel and spent the next thirty minutes scrolling through her social media accounts while she waited for Fabien to finish his shift. She wondered whether she should invite him to her studio, where she knew they would be able to talk more freely, but she was happy – and a little relieved – when he sent her a text inviting her to join him for a late supper at the bistro.
As she made her way across the street, nerves played ping-pong in her abdomen.
She had shied away from talking about her relationship with Drew for all kinds of reasons – humiliation, embarrassment, shame – but she had come to realise that keeping her past to herself for fear of what others might think made things so much worse. Those feelings had festered, attacking her self-worth whenever she found herself at a low point, and especially after yet another failed date with one of her brother’s friends. If she wanted to move on, she had to be open about what had happened, warts and all, and she was finally ready to do that.
She pushed open the door, smiling when she saw the bottle of red wine and two glasses waiting on the bar for their dinner à deux. It was only ten o’clock, but the bistro was deserted; there was no soft music playing, no customers dawdling over a last glass of complimentary brandy, and no sign of either Pascal or Michel finishing up the final tasks of the evening. An unexpected melancholy hung in the air, something she had never experienced before at the bistro.
When Fabien appeared from the kitchen holding two wide-brimmed bowls of fragrant cassoulet, her tastebuds tingled and her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. However, her smile of anticipation melted from her lips when she saw the glum expression on Fabien’s handsome face.
‘Fabien? What’s wrong?’
Fabien placed their supper on the bar and indicated for her to take a seat on the stool next to him, taking a moment to pour them both a glass of the rich, smooth Bordeaux they both loved. He gulped down a generous mouthful before meeting her gaze, resignation, and a soup?on of sadness, lingering in his dark brown eyes as he replied to her enquiry.
‘We only had eight covers in tonight.’
‘I’m so sorry, Fabien.’
Fabien shrugged his shoulders in a familiar gesture that was meant to indicate it was okay, but she could see from his demeanour that the lack of diners was far from okay. Her heart gave a nip of sympathy when she thought of all the hard work he’d put in to the launch of his eponymous restaurant, and the hopes and dreams he’d invested in its yearned-for success, only for the business to fail after such a short period of time.
‘It’s over.’
‘Oh, Fabien, no—’
‘I’m closing the bistro at the end of the month. There’s no point limping on to the end of the year, collecting more bad reviews, losing more and more money, hoping and praying something will change. A bistro lives and dies on its chef’s reputation, and – as our anonymous reviewer is keen to make sure everyone knows – the chef at Bistro Fabien is mediocre at best.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘It’s what potential diners who read the reviews will think.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I spoke to Pascal before you arrived. I tried, I failed, and the dream is over. Of course, like me, he’s completely devastated, but he was astute enough to realise that this was on the cards long before I did, and he already has another bartending job lined up at a hotel in Montmartre. With the festive period fast approaching, they want him to start as soon as possible, so it makes sense to call it a day at the end of the month.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Go back to Nice, I suppose.’ Fabien grimaced at the thought of returning home with his tail between his legs like a dejected puppy. ‘I’ll take whatever work I can get, even if it’s washing the dishes.’
‘I’m sure the owners of Le Soleil would have you back in a flash.’
Fabien shook his head. ‘I’m not going back there if I can help it. It would be completely soul-destroying.’
Silence descended as Fabien pushed away his plate of uneaten cassoulet in favour of making inroads into the bottle of wine, his thoughts clearly on his imminent departure and everything that would entail. However, when he finally turned towards Poppy, she was surprised to see that instead of defeat and misery in his eyes, there was a spark of excitement.
‘Why don’t you come with me?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come with me to Nice. It’s an incredible place; there are beautiful beaches, hidden coves, craggy cliffs, quaint villages, picturesque marinas, not to mention three hundred and thirty days of sunshine every year. The food is world-class, the wine is delicious, and there are golf courses and ski resorts within an hour’s drive. Instead of an English Garden Café, we could open a Riviera Garden Café with olive trees, and palm trees, and trellises draped with bougainvillea, wisteria, and climbing roses. I’ll make the bouillabaisse and the salade ni?oise, you can create your amazing patisserie – my grandmother’s recipe for tarte Tropezienne is to die for – and Pascal can be our resident mixologist. It’s the perfect solution! What do you say?’
Poppy stared at Fabien, amazed at how nothing could suppress his high spirits for long, how his mood had morphed from abject despondency to cheerful optimism as he talked effusively about a potential new project. She wished she could be more like him, but her thoughts had scattered in a myriad of directions at his suggestion of going to the south of France to open a café together.
How could she contemplate taking such a huge leap of faith with someone she barely knew?
Her past came screaming back with a vengeance as she remembered what had happened the last time she had put her trust in someone she barely knew. It hadn’t ended well. To her dismay, she realised that her prolonged hesitation had caused Fabien’s excitement to falter, and his smile had slipped from his lips, replaced with realisation and remorse.
‘I’m so sorry, Poppy. What was I thinking? Of course you can’t just drop everything you have going on in Devon to join forces with someone who already has one failed business enterprise behind them.’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s—’
‘It’s fine, really it is. You have your own dreams to pursue, just like Léa had hers. Ignore me. It seems I still have a lot to learn about controlling my tendency to get carried away with an avalanche of ideas before I’ve thought them through properly, and especially how those ideas will impact on the people I am pitching them to. Please accept my profuse apologies, my suggestion was presumptuous and crass, but I… well…’
Fabien paused to take another sip of his wine, and Poppy reached out to take his hand in hers and give it a gentle squeeze, hoping to indicate that she hadn’t been offended by his proposal that she should leave her home and everything she knew to start again in Nice. In fact, she was flattered, and gratified, that someone who’d at one stage had a Michelin star had such faith in her abilities as a pastry chef that he wanted her to join him.
‘Fabien, I—’
‘I know we haven’t known each other for long, Poppy, but I feel like we have a connection, something that goes beyond our mutual passion for gastronomy in all its guises. It’s something I’ve never felt before, not with Léa, not with anyone, and I think it’s something you feel, too. When we’re together, it’s as though… as though you’re the other half of me, that you know exactly what I’m about to do before I do it. I truly believe that if we work together, we can create great things, no, we can create spectacular things, but if I’m wrong, if you don’t feel the same way, then I completely understand.’
Fabien removed his hand from hers to take another sip of his wine, his eyes averted as he prepared himself for her response to the things he’d just said. He was right; she did feel the connection he had spoken about, that invisible pull that drew her towards him whenever they were together, whether they were in the kitchen or exploring everything that Paris had to offer.
She knew this was the moment for her to share her story with him, just as she had intended when she’d texted him to ask him to meet her for a drink that evening. However, now that the time had arrived, she was scared. Scared about what his reaction would be, but also that she wouldn’t be able to get to the end of the sorry tale without dissolving into a hot, snivelling mess.
It seemed her earlier resolve to open up to Fabien had failed her at the final hurdle, and she was about to suggest they made themselves coffee when she remembered what Kath had said to her at the Boathouse Bistro before she’d left for Edinburgh; that it was important to be a leader, not a follower in the story of her life. This was her chance to prove to herself that she was a leader, and one of the requirements of that role was finding the courage to do things that were challenging.