Chapter Twenty Three
Saturday morning dawned with a leaden sky, but the meteorological gods would have to work a lot harder to rain on Poppy’s parade that day. The feeling of optimism and cheerfulness that had resulted from pouring out her heart to Fabien the previous night remained, and after rustling up a coffee and a croissant in her tiny kitchen, she headed into the shower where she belted out a rendition of Walking on Sunshine because that was exactly how she felt.
She dressed quickly, planning to call into the bistro on her way to the patisserie to tell Fabien how much his support had meant to her, and maybe inject a dose of positivity and hopefulness into his despondency over the future of Bistro Fabien. So, it was a huge surprise when the next scene in her novel – the all-important “meet cute” between the two main characters – appeared in her brain, perfectly formed and ready for her to record every hilarious detail in her trusty notebook.
She reached for her satchel, but to her dismay her notebook wasn’t inside, and the only thing she could think of was that she had left it at the bookshop when she was there the previous night. Sighing at her forgetfulness, she grabbed her coat, stuffed her beret in her pocket, and skipped down the stairs, hoping that she could collect it from Librairie Juliette on her way to see Fabien, but when she arrived, the store wasn’t open yet.
She was about to continue her journey when she noticed a flash of movement inside. She shielded her eyes and peered through the window into the shadowy interior, relieved to see that Stéphane was there stocking the shelves, so she rapped on the glass. After the initial alarm at seeing someone hammering on the window to get his attention, Stéphane’s expression switched to recognition, and he cracked open the door a few inches, clearly not keen to invite her over the threshold outside opening hours.
‘Hi, Stéphane. I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I may have left my journal here yesterday. Has someone handed it in, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so. Wait there, I’ll take a look.’
Stéphane closed the door in her face and disappeared. When he returned a few minutes later, he shook his head. ‘Sorry, there’s nothing there.’
‘Oh no, are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Poppy’s stomach dropped to her toes as she realised that her notebook contained the only draft of her novel. If it was lost, so was all the hard work she’d put into it, and she chastised herself for not valuing what she had created more by taking better care of it. However, that wasn’t Stéphane’s fault, so she forced a smile onto her lips and met his gaze, surprised to see he was looking over her shoulder to where Bistro Fabien’s sign was resolutely displaying Fermé, his expression a strange mix of curiosity and distaste.
‘Okay, thanks, Stéphane.’
After checking her watch, Poppy realised that her detour to the bookshop meant that she now didn’t have time to pop into the bistro to see Fabien as she had initially intended, so she decided to call him instead, but to her surprise, her call went to voicemail. Returning her phone to her satchel, she made her way towards Patisserie Madeleine, her head swirling with yet more problems that needed to be solved; why wasn’t the bistro open, and why wasn’t Fabien answering his phone?
She heaved a sigh, her earlier cheerfulness waning as she paused outside the patisserie to appreciate that day’s window display. She wished she could think of a way to alleviate Fabien’s pessimism over the future of his eponymous bistro, and a second later, as though the gods had overheard her impassioned request, she was reminded of her earlier idea.
If Nathan’s tenacious investigation of the events surrounding the jewellery store robbery had resulted in the release of Suzie from the grip of desolation, maybe the digging she and Camille had planned to do into the issues at the bistro would produce the same results for Fabien?
A rush of determination flooded her veins. She would tell Camille that their sleuthing was back on, and having made that decision, her positivity returned, and she felt buoyant as she stepped into Patisserie Madeleine.
She issued a jaunty greeting to Alain, but to her surprise and bewilderment, he simply nodded curtly, then turned his back on her to continue wiping down the glass shelves, his shoulders stiff, his body language distant and unapproachable. Perturbed, she hung up her hat and coat, tied her apron around her waist, and was about to take up position behind the counter when she heard her name being called.
‘Ah, bonjour, Olivier, je—’
‘Could you come through into the kitchen, please, Poppy? I’d like to speak to you in private.’
‘Yes, of course.’
As soon as she walked through the kitchen door and saw Camille standing there, her face pale, her eyes red and swollen, she knew immediately what had happened. Her heart plummeted like a stone down a well, bouncing back up again to lodge painfully somewhere between her chest and her throat. She met Olivier’s gaze and saw that his eyes were filled with a mixture of disappointment and confusion, his lips set in a tight line, and the top button of his chef’s jacket was open, something she hadn’t seen before.
‘Camille has told me what she did,’ Olivier said in English, so Poppy had no chance of misunderstanding what he was saying. ‘And I have to admit that I’m at a complete loss as to why she would do this terrible thing to me. I’m even more surprised that you would join in with such an enterprise, Poppy.’
‘Olivier, I…’
She stopped, unsure what she could say that wouldn’t make things worse for Camille, who she could see was staring wide-eyed at Olivier, her whole body trembling as she waited to hear what he was going to say next. Poppy wanted to wrap her arms around her friend, but she could see Olivier was struggling to keep a hold on his emotions.
‘May I continue?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ Poppy murmured.
‘Can you imagine my surprise when I got a telephone call from one of my best friends this morning, informing me that there would be a short delay in the judging of this year’s annual Parisian patisserie competition, and that I shouldn’t be concerned because I would be contacted before the winner’s name is announced in Paris Match!’
Olivier started to pace backwards and forwards across the full length of his kitchen, his plaster-encased arms flying in the air as he spoke.
‘Of course, I explained to Jean-Jacques that he was mistaken, that I hadn’t entered the competition this year because of my unfortunate skiing accident. However, he informed me that it was me who was mistaken, and that my entry was sitting on the table in front of him as we spoke.’ Olivier paused in front of Camille, who lowered her head in an effort to avoid his gaze. ‘I asked him to check the paperwork, just to make sure he’d read it correctly, and we all know what he found, don’t we? That someone else had entered the most prestigious patisserie competition in the whole of Paris on my behalf, and without my knowledge. How could you do this, Camille?’
‘Olivier, you make the best patisserie—’
‘That goes without saying,’ said Olivier without an ounce of doubt in his statement. ‘Nevertheless, your actions have caused me a great deal of embarrassment amongst my peers. Unfortunately, it’s too late to withdraw because the judges have already sampled all the entries and are currently holed up in their sumptuous suites at H?tel Le Royal considering their verdicts. I’m very disappointed in you, Camille.’
‘I’m sorry, Olivier, I—’
‘And you, Poppy. Camille has told me that you didn’t have anything to do with the creation of the submission, or its delivery, but that you did know about it. If you had told me of her deceitful plan, I could have put a stop to it before my reputation was damaged beyond repair, but for some reason, you chose not to.’
‘Olivier, I really—’
Olivier held up his hand to stop her from continuing, and Poppy glanced at Camille who twisted her lips in contrition. Poppy felt awful, and she really wished she’d been more persuasive when she’d spoken to Camille about telling Olivier what she was doing. She should have known how important the competition was to him, and she could see from his demeanour how distressed he was.
‘I think it would be best for all of us if you both took leave of your duties until I decide what I want to do. In the meantime, I’ve asked one of Céline’s sisters to come over to help Alain in the shop.’
Camille’s jaw loosened. ‘No, Olivier, please, I—’
‘I’ll call you when I’ve had chance to think things through, Camille, and Poppy, if you’d like to head back home to Devon a few days earlier than you intended, then I don’t have a problem with that.’
Olivier’s tone made it clear that was his final word, and he placed his hands on his hips, obviously expecting for them to vacate his kitchen immediately. Poppy’s eyes filled with tears as she stumbled from the room, her heart aching as she grabbed her coat and hat and headed out of Patisserie Madeleine’s front door with Camille following closely in her wake.
When she emerged onto Rue Saint-André, she stopped, unsure what to do or where to go. Guilt churned through her body, and she fervently wished she could turn the clock back and change how she and Camille had handled the whole patisserie competition fiasco, which, as she’d suspected, had seriously backfired. But hindsight was a wonderful thing, and there was nothing they could do about their momentous error of judgement now.
‘Come on,’ said Camille, her voice strained. ‘Let’s go for a coffee.’
A few minutes later, Poppy was sipping a double espresso at a tiny café in a hidden alleyway, its interior warm and welcoming, and filled with the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and breakfast pastries. It was the perfect place to hide from the vagaries of the outside world and reflect on the mistakes she had made. She chanced a quick glance at Camille, saddened when she saw her usually exuberant friend staring into the depths of her cup, as if hoping that she would find the answers she sought there.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble, too.’
‘What do you think Olivier is going to do?’ Poppy asked, swallowing down hard on her emotions. ‘What if… what if he doesn’t want you to go back to Patisserie Madeleine?’
Camille pondered Poppy’s question for a few moments before pushing herself up straight in her chair, squaring her shoulders, and meeting Poppy’s eyes. ‘I shouldn’t have done what I did, it was reckless and presumptuous, but that doesn’t mean I regret it. To be honest, I would do it again.’
‘Really?’
‘Olivier’s reaction is completely understandable. He’s just found out what happened, and he’s shocked, angry, and embarrassed. But the fact remains that he has entered the competition every year without fail for the last ten years, and he would have entered this year, too, if he hadn’t had his wrists in plaster. Even with that unfortunate impediment to his dexterity, he should have had enough confidence in his undeniable talent to enter anyway. All I did was do that on his behalf. It was his patisserie I entered; not Alain’s, not mine, not yours, his. Okay, I created the layout, but the presentation is incidental; in this competition, the selection of the winner has always come down to the beauty of the actual patisserie, and most important of all, its taste.’
Poppy stared at Camille in astonishment – her friend had clearly bounced back from her dressing down a lot quicker than Poppy herself had. Her breath was still coming in rapid spurts, her heartrate was still elevated, and her throat was still dry, despite the coffee.
‘But you might have lost your job because of it!’
‘I think when Olivier calms down and has had the chance to think things through, as well as talk to Alain, he’ll see things differently,’ said Camille, confidently. ‘Okay, that’s enough wallowing. Let’s talk about our sleuthing adventures. Have you heard anything back from your brother about the malicious reviews that Fabien’s been getting?’
Suddenly Poppy was conflicted. When she’d stepped into the patisserie less than thirty minutes ago, she had been super-determined about pressing ahead with their investigation into what was going on at the bistro in the hope that they would have similar success to that which Nathan had achieved, and Fabien wouldn’t have to close his restaurant and go back to Nice at the end of the month. However, after what had just happened with Olivier, she wasn’t so sure it was the right thing to do until they had spoken to Fabien and had obtained his express permission to go-ahead, and so she told Camille that.
‘But I’ve already spoken to étienne.’
‘Well, just ask him to hang fire for a while.’
‘Poppy, this is something totally different. Someone is out to destroy Fabien’s business!’
‘I know, but I still think we should—’
‘Hasn’t Fabien called you this morning?’
‘No, I tried to call him on my way over here, but he didn’t answer his phone.’ Poppy’s heart gave a nip of discomfort, especially when she saw the expression on Camille’s face. ‘Oh, no, has something else happened?’
‘Pascal called me, just a few minutes before I arrived for my shift at Patisserie Madeleine and Olivier… Never mind. He told me that another upsetting review was posted late last night, one that not only attacked Fabien’s cuisine as “run-of-the-mill” and “only one step up from fast food”, but also denigrated him personally as a “has-been chef”. Understandably, Fabien is devastated. After sleeping on it, he called Pascal first thing this morning and said there’s no point waiting until the end of the month; he’s closing the bistro this week!’
‘What?!’
‘He knows you’re going back to the UK in a few days’ time, so there’s not much left for him here in Paris. According to Pascal, he’s already making plans to move back to Nice. So, what I’m trying to say is, it’s even more imperative than ever for us to identify who’s responsible for these totally despicable actions, so we can do something about it before it’s too late. Restaurants, bars, hotels and tourist attractions get unjustified bad reviews all the time, but coupled with the food and flower deliveries, it’s clear that someone is targeting Fabien specifically.’
‘But why?’
‘I think we need to find out who before we discover the answer to that question.’
‘Well, we have no idea about that, do we?’
‘We know some things.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Okay, so, we know that it’s someone who knows Fabien and has some kind of a grudge against him or they wouldn’t be doing this,’ said Camille, scooting to the edge of her seat, her eyes sparkling as she raised her hand so she could count off her points on her fingers one at a time. ‘We also know that it’s someone who knows something about Fabien’s food because one of the reviews was very specific about his recipes, and the culinary techniques that he uses to create them. It’s also someone who knows how to write; all of the reviews are articulate, eloquent even, as though the person is a would-be professional food critic or a journalist or an author, maybe. And finally, we know that it’s someone who has money to waste because all those prank deliveries would have cost a lot of money. étienne said the bouquet was one of the most expensive he made that month.’
‘Do we know anyone who fulfils those criteria?’
Camille scrunched up her nose as the wind was taken from her sails.
‘No one springs to mind, unfortunately. You?’
‘No.’
‘Did you hear anything back from your brother about the technical side of things?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘Why don’t you give him a call?’
‘I wasn’t going to chase him for news until I’d spoken to Fabien.’
Camille stared at Poppy, her jaw clenched, her meaning clear.
‘Okay, okay.’
She pulled out her phone and called Bart, but her call went to voicemail. She left a breezy message about the enquiry she had sent him, and she wasn’t in the least bit surprised when he sent her an e-mail setting out what he’d managed to discover so far before they had finished their coffees. She read it carefully, then she read it again – skimming over the complicated scientific and data explanations her brother had included that sounded like gobbledygook to her – then gave Camille a synopsis of the contents.
‘Bart says that all the one-star reviews were posted from the same account, even though they were published under different names. While he can’t be one hundred per cent certain, he thinks they originated from an IP address in the South of France.’
‘Mmm, the South of France,’ Camille murmured, toying with the handle of her empty coffee cup. ‘So like Marseilles, Nice, Antibes, St Tropez, Cannes…’
‘Oh my God! Did you say Cannes!?’