Chapter Twenty Six
With trepidation swirling, Poppy took her phone from her satchel, but before she could select Fabien’s number there was a knock on the door. As it could only be Hélène, she unfurled her legs and padded across the room to let her in.
She smiled when she saw the magnificent off-the-shoulder dress her landlady was wearing in a rich caramel colour to match her faux-fur trimmed stiletto boots and spherical handbag. Her accessories had been carefully selected to enhance her elegant appearance; a rope of pearls the size of marbles, with matching earrings, and a slender gold Cartier watch. Not to be outdone, Gigi sported a gold lamé jacket and a collar encrusted with green gemstones.
‘Salut, Hélène.’
‘Is everything okay? Camille called me. She’s worried about you.’
‘Did she tell you about the competition and Olivier’s reaction when he found out?’
‘She did, and I know he will forgive her once he’s had chance to calm down and think things through. It’s hardly the disaster of the century. Olivier is a good man, but he can be quick-tempered, and like many artists, he’s fiercely protective about his work. I’ve tried to call him, but of course, he didn’t answer because he knows what I will tell him. So, I’ve spoken to Alain, and he has promised to speak to Olivier when the shop closes for the day.’ Hélène paused, her voice softening. ‘Camille also told me about Fabien shutting the bistro and going back to Nice with Léa.’
The gentle sympathy in Hélène’s eyes made Poppy feel even worse. She realised that hearing Léa describe Fabien as her “soon-to-be fiancé” had made a bigger impact on her than she had thought, and to her dismay, tears collected along her lashes.
‘I’m sorry, Poppy.’
She nodded, giving Hélène a watery smile. ‘There’s something else, though.’
‘You think Léa is behind the goings on at the bistro.’
‘Yes.’ Camille had evidently told Hélène about their suspicions, and Poppy was suddenly grateful to have someone to talk to about how to handle it. ‘What do you think I should do?’
Hélène perched on the side of Poppy’s bed, settled Gigi on her lap, and took a moment before answering.‘I think you should talk to Fabien.’
‘And tell him we think his girlfriend is a saboteur?’
‘No, I don’t think you should do that.’
‘What then?’
‘I think you should tell him how you feel about him.’
Poppy sighed. ‘What’s the point?’
‘I’ve always found it to be preferable to be open and honest about how we feel, and that’s even more important when we are dealing with affairs of the heart, don’t you think?’
‘But he’s with Léa.’
‘You only have her word for that.’
Poppy stared at Hélène as the cogs turned in her brain.
‘You’re saying she was lying?’
‘No, I’m saying there’s a possibility she could be mistaken, but you won’t know either way unless you talk to Fabien. I’ve seen you two together. You have the same connection, the same synergie I had with my Laurant before he passed away. It’s something that doesn’t happen in every relationship, and it’s something that’s worth fighting for, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know. We live in different countries…’
Hélène fixed Poppy with a steely gaze. ‘Didn’t Fabien ask you to go to Nice with him?’
‘Yes, he did. How do you—?’
‘Do you think that’s the action of a man who’s intending to go back to his girlfriend when he returns home?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Poppy paused. ‘I told Fabien I’d think about it, but to be honest, Hélène, I can’t see myself moving to the South of France. I want to pursue the dream I’ve had since I could hold a wooden spoon, and I can’t see an English Garden Café in the middle of Provence.’
‘Then tell Fabien that.’
‘He knows.’
‘Does he know you love him?’
Poppy’s jaw loosened, but she rallied quickly now that she was more familiar with Hélène’s penchant for directness when discussing all-things romance.
‘No, I…’
Hélène laughed. ‘You need to be a little more French, Poppy. Love is something to be relished, to be celebrated, to be declared from the rooftops! It emboldens us, coaxes us to throw caution to the wind and shout out the words je t’adore, je t’adore, je t’adore. Believe me, you won’t regret it!’ Hélène held Poppy’s gaze. ‘So?’
‘What?’
‘Call him!’
‘Now?’
‘Yes!’
‘I… Okay.’
A surge of optimism washed through Poppy’s veins. This was her chance to prove to herself that she had really changed, that she was not just saying that she would be a leader in her life but was actually doing it. She picked up her phone and selected Fabien’s number, but, disappointingly, her call went straight to voicemail. She was about to hang up when Hélène grabbed the phone from her hand and rattled off a deluge of high-speed French, grinning triumphantly when she passed the phone back to her.
‘What did you say?’
‘I told Fabien that he should meet you at Le Jules Verne in an hour. I have an old friend who’s worked there for the last twenty-five years, Henri Bouchard. I’ll call him and ask him to organise a discreet table so the two of you can talk without interruptions. Now, I shall leave you to change for your rendezvous.’
‘Change?’
Hélène glanced at the outfit Poppy had chosen for her shift at Patisserie Madeleine that morning, which seemed like days ago now, and she took the not-so-subtle hint. Le Jules Verne was a Michelin-starred restaurant located on the second floor of the Eiffel Tower known throughout France for its sublime food and impeccable service. She couldn’t turn up there in a pair of navy-blue palazzo trousers and white, long-sleeved tee-shirt with a splodge of chocolate sauce on the cuff.
As soon as Hélène and Gigi left, Poppy jumped in the shower, her spirits riding high. She appreciated Hélène’s advice and support, and her decision to be more open about how she felt – even if her feelings weren’t reciprocated – was another step forward on her journey towards a new beginning. She chose the only dress she had brought with her to Paris, took a little more care than usual with her makeup, added a spritz of perfume, then headed downstairs, thrilled to see that Hélène and Odette were waiting in the foyer to give her an enthusiastic send-off.
She embraced them both, thanking Hélène for ordering a taxi to take her to the Eiffel Tower so she could avoid a drenching from the rain that was threatening, and fifteen minutes later she was in the elevator being whisked up to the iconic restaurant.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’ The ma?tre d’ – whose badge informed Poppy that he was Hélène’s friend Henri – smiled. ‘I have your table ready.’
Poppy’s nerves started to swirl as she followed Henri to a secluded table, and when he delivered the glass of wine she’d ordered, she took a huge revitalising gulp. She was surprised the restaurant wasn’t busier, until she realised it was three o’clock and that most of the lunch crowd had probably left, which was likely the reason Hélène had been able to secure her a table at such short notice.
She surveyed the room, taking in the elegant décor that echoed the shades of the Paris landscape outside the window; silver-grey, blue-grey and green-grey. The white table linen was pristine, starched and crisp, and the glasses glinted even in the descending darkness of the rainclouds. However, no matter how chic and sophisticated the interior, nothing could match the panoramic view from the window, dissected by the intricate ironwork of the tower itself.
Feeling more relaxed, she turned her attention to what she was going to say to Fabien. Taking Hélène and Pascal’s advice, she decided to steer clear of the thorny issues surrounding who was responsible for the failure of his business and stick to the more personal subject of how she felt about him. When she realised she had finished her glass of wine, she glanced at her watch, and a tickle of anxiety agitated in her chest.
Fabien was late.
Time limped by, and after waiting another fifteen minutes she started to feel conspicuous and noticed several sympathetic glances from the remaining diners. She had been so caught up in her determination to tell Fabien how she felt that she hadn’t paused to consider the fact that he might not have received Hélène’s invitation. She scrabbled in her satchel for her phone and sent her friend a quick text, inordinately relieved when she received one straight back assuring her that Hélène had received a text from Fabien promising to be there.
Except he wasn’t.
Another fifteen minutes went by, and after toying with her phone, she called Fabien herself, but, just as before, her call went to voicemail, and the text she subsequently sent to him went unanswered. When she had been sitting there, alone, for almost an hour, she felt she couldn’t stay any longer.
Fabien had obviously changed his mind.
She pulled on her coat, thanked Henri for his kindness and made a swift departure, upset, disheartened, and a little embarrassed at being stood up. Although it wasn’t the first time, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last, it still hurt. Needing to hear a friendly voice, she called Camille, but to her surprise, that call went to voicemail, too, so she sent her a cheery message, apologising for running out of the bistro and telling her she would catch up with her the following day.
As she exited the lift at the base of the tower, she realised that the heavens had truly opened. However, instead of trying to find a taxi, or brave the Paris Métro, which she had still not totally got the hang of, she decided the walk back to her studio would give her the time to think everything through.
When she arrived at Rue Saint-André she was soaked to the skin, but her spirits edged up a notch when, to her surprise, she saw the lights were on at the bistro. She crossed the street and peered through the gap between the blinds, which afforded her a view of the bar but not the dining area. She couldn’t see anyone, but she could hear raised voices, and was about to make her way inside, when Fabien came into view and dropped down onto one of the bar stools.
As she continued to watch, Léa appeared in her line of vision, dressed in a sparkly silver gown like a film star heading for a night out on the red carpet, and leaned forward to wrap her arms around Fabien’s shoulders, standing on her tiptoes so she could place a kiss on his lips. Poppy pulled back, feeling like she’d been slapped in the face, then chose to prolong the agony by taking another peek through the gap, just to make sure her eyes hadn’t deceived her.
Sadly, they hadn’t.
She spun on her heels and hurried across the cobbled street towards the sanctuary of her studio, pausing on the doorstep as she searched for her keys. She had just pushed open the door when she heard the sound of raised voices, and when she glanced over her shoulder, to her astonishment, she saw Camille and étienne emerge from inside the bistro, huddled together against the rain. Her misery was complete.