by Jo Thomas
‘And right next to Henri’s bistro,’ I add, thinking how much I’d love a coffee right now. Just then, Henri comes out to greet Fabien and me.
‘Welcome! And bonne chance!’ he says. Ralph is darting this way and that, taking in all the smells, and cocks his leg on an olive tree in a pot outside the smart chambre d’hôte next door. Fabien and Henri laugh. I tie him to the table once Fabien has set it up and thrown the cloth over it.
‘Wait!’ says Fabien, going back to the truck. ‘A chair, for quieter times,’ he says. I decide to tie Ralph to that, rather than the table.
‘Merci, Fabien, for everything. You have been a good friend. You and Carine,’ I emphasize.
He smiles. My stomach flick-flacks.
‘Perhaps you would like to join me for lunch after the market?’ He tilts his head to one side.
Is he asking what I think he is? I bite my lip.
‘And Carine?’ I ask tentatively. ‘You and Carine?’
‘Carine is … She has an appointment,’ he says. A flash of irritation crosses his face.
I’m uncomfortable. I’m not sure how Carine would feel if I was to have lunch with Fabien on my own. I wouldn’t have liked Ollie to have lunch on his own with female friends.
‘I’m sorry, Fabien. I can’t.’
He frowns. ‘I thought … we could get to know each other … understand each other better, non? Lunch. It’s what we do here in France.’
‘Well, I may have only just moved here, and I want to be part of things, but where I come from …’ I stop and think to myself. ‘Where I come from we do not go out with our friends’ partners for lunch to “understand each other”. ’That was where it went wrong for Ollie. ‘I’m really grateful to you and Carine for everything. But I can’t meet you for lunch. Perhaps we can meet with Carine, soon.’
He nods slowly, as if not quite understanding. I thank him again. He wishes me luck as he turns to go and open the brocante, hands shoved into jeans pockets. He is in a relationship with a friend. It was the right thing to do. And then, as I watch him go, I wonder why I feel so disappointed that I had to say no. Just for a moment I wonder what it would have been like if Ollie had stayed, if we’d tried to be part of the community instead of just hanging out with the expats. Life might have been very different. I feel lonely again. Just like I did when I told Ollie I wasn’t going back with him. I take a deep, restorative breath. Right now, I need to be me, on my own.
I start to lay out my tuiles and shortbread with shaking hands. I’m not sure if it’s nerves about showing the world my cookery or that Fabien has put his cards on the table and so have I. I lay out some macarons too, hiding the wonky ones under the better ones. I drop sprigs of lavender across them, and sprinkle over some of the flowers. Then I put a bunch in a jar on the table. Other stallholders and some shopkeepers are in the main square opening up, or pass me on the way to the car park and wish me a good morning, eyeing me and my products with interest. Will anyone buy anything? Or will they just walk past?
Henri comes out with a coffee for me, and a mini croissant. ‘A welcome gift,’ he says, refusing any money.
‘Merci, Henri.’ I smile gratefully.
I sip my coffee as the market in the main square begins to fill with people. Even Ralph settles down to watch them passing without expecting to greet everyone.
‘You need to let them try your goods,’ Henri tells me. ‘They need to know the story of the food and where it came from, from the hills around here.’ He squeezes my shoulder and returns to the bistro. ‘Tell them your story,’ he calls back to me, ‘why you fell in love with the place. Why this food matters.’
A few people pass my stall on their way between the two market squares – the main square and the car park. They’re walking past and looking but no one is stopping to buy. Henri’s right, I think. I should know this from working in the department store. You have to draw people in. You have to get them interested in what you’re selling. You have to let them try. I put down my coffee and, with shaking hands, break up some shortbread and toss a piece to Ralph for behaving so well. I put the fragments on a plate, then take a huge breath, walk out from behind my stall and offer them to passers-by, hands still shaking. The Frenchwomen, smart, with sunglasses on their heads, no doubt on their way to work, raise a hand, decline politely, smile and walk on. It’s going to be a complete disaster! But as the morning warms up, the tourists start to trickle by. They’re happy to try and, to my relief, I start to sell. The more I tell people about what I’m making, the more interested they become in the lavender. I offer them lavender-infused biscuits and explain where I live, that it used to be the biggest lavender farm of the area. I turn to see Henri watching me with a smile. He was right. They seem to like the story, and the fact that I’ve left the UK to live on a lavender farm here. The more I tell the story, the more it seems to grow. The tourists reach into their pockets and purses and buy. It’s the story of a woman turned lavender cook that they buy as much as the biscuits.
‘Well, this looks lovely!’ Cora and her friends have appeared and I feel bad that I haven’t taken them up on their suggestion of a drink at the ‘pub’.
‘Hello, Cora,’ I say, and she makes a big event of kissing me loudly. The French don’t make a sound but Cora does it with a ‘mwah’ each time, making her stand out from the crowd.
‘How very brave of you,’ she says. ‘I mean, living here is one thing, but trying to get the French to accept us, then beating them at their own game, that’s brave!’
‘I’m not trying to beat anyone, Cora. I’m just trying to be a part of things.’ I smile, unsure of what she means. My confidence dips.
‘Well done you. I’d invite you to join us for coffee, but you seem tied up. If you get fed up, you know where to find us.’
‘I do. Thank you,’ I say, knowing exactly where to find them. They’ll be in the ‘pub’, more British than French now, with seating in the middle of the square under the plane trees by the church. A glorious setting with prices to reflect it. It was Ollie’s favourite, too. ‘But I think I’ll be here until we pack up at midday,’ I say.
‘Hope you smash it!’ she says, and wishes me good luck. ‘Au revoir,’ she adds, and walks on without buying anything. Henri is standing in his doorway, wiping his hands on the tea towel tucked into his white apron, which is tied around his gently rounded middle. He smiles, then urges me to get back out there and start selling again. So I do.
The morning passes quietly and I sell about half of my stock, in little clear freezer bags. I pop a sprig of lavender into each one. I plan to get paper bags soon and some stickers made with ‘Le Petit Mas de la Lavande’ on them to underline that my bakes are from a lavender farm. I’m not making a fortune today, but at least I have some money to live off and next week I’ll try to extend my range.
The church clock chimes, signalling midday. The stallholders start to pack up, giving last-minute reductions and making end-of-the-day sales, then head for the café off the car park, which will be full of people greeting each other, shaking hands, kissing, chattering, the smell of cooking, and jugs of wine. Even Henri’s little bistro has filled up and he is taking orders and serving customers with his dish of the day. Every now and again he looks over to see how I’m doing. I give him a nod and a smile.
‘You’re selling?’ he asks, as he brings me another coffee. ‘Did it go like hot cakes?’
I thank him profusely for the coffee, and when he won’t take any money, I offer him a biscuit instead. Suddenly I’m nervous again. What was I thinking, offering a French chef one of my home-baked biscuits? The tray I’m holding wobbles as my hands shake. From the main square I hear the shouts of stallholders as they manoeuvre their vans.
With one hand, Henri pushes back his silver-grey hair, which has come loose from its ponytail, and lifts the biscuit to his nose with the other. He smells it. I watch his face. The little silver beard beneath his lower lip twitches. Then he breaks it in two and nods, clearly impressed
. Now all he has to do is taste it. I watch as he lifts one half of the biscuit towards his mouth. I hope I’m not making a complete fool of myself here. Maybe I am. Maybe he’s laughing at me. ‘Brave’, Cora had said. Did she really mean ‘stupid’? Maybe she was right. Henri opens his mouth, and I have an overwhelming urge to grab the biscuit from him and say, ‘Don’t bother,’ but I watch and cringe.
At a shout from behind me, then another and a bark, I swing round. Henri spins round to look in the direction of a commotion.
TWELVE
A boy in a hoodie has grabbed a handful of biscuits from my stall while my back was turned. He dodges nimbly in and out of the people there. Someone is shouting, ‘Stop him!’
‘Hey!’ I yell. Ralph jumps up, thrilled with the new game, and leaps after the boy. The chair he’s tied to catches around the leg of the table, then table and chair shift across the cobbled street as Ralph chases his new playmate. Macarons fly from the table, like marbles bouncing over the cobbles, rolling under people’s feet. Ralph leaps for the lad, who jumps, dropping something from his pocket, then swiftly sidesteps my dog and is gone through the square and into the shadows of the dark little streets beyond.
A leg of the table is broken, the macarons strewn everywhere. Ralph is panting and smiling. Cora and her two friends, no doubt on their way back from coffee, are aghast.
‘Terrible! Someone needs to do something about that,’ says Cora. ‘It’s affecting the whole town. Are you okay?’ she asks.
I put my hand to the money belt Fabien lent me before he left me this morning. The money I made is still safe. I peer at the debris on the ground. I still have a box of shortbread in my hand. It’s just the macarons that bit the dust and Ralph is busy hoovering them up. A passing chihuahua attempts to join in but is persuaded away by its owner tutting. I nod to her and smile.
‘I saw exactly where he went. Got a look at his face too!’ says Cora, pointing a painted nail. ‘I’ll watch the dog while you go after him!’ She tries to grab Ralph’s lead, still attached to the chair and the broken table leg, then reels backwards when Ralph leaps up in excitement.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. I turn to see Henri beside me.
‘Maybe we should just pack these things now,’ he says calmly, seeing me caught between giving chase at Cora’s command and common sense. ‘It’s not worth getting too stressed about,’ he says. ‘It’s the end of market.’
‘Not worth getting stressed about? It’s the thin end of the wedge! No wonder we have problems round here with that attitude.’ Cora marches off, skidding on a macaron. Her friends follow her, frowning in Henri’s direction.
‘Come,’ Henri says, leading me back to his bistro. ‘Let me help you clear up.’
‘Shouldn’t I tell someone what just happened?’ I ask, thinking maybe I should at least report it to the woman from the mayor’s office.
‘Sometimes people do things because they have to. They don’t mean to hurt anyone. That young person didn’t mean any harm,’ he says, with real kindness. ‘Here, let me give you lunch by way of making it up to you.’ He holds up a hand at my hesitation. ‘I insist,’ he says, and I can’t help but smile at his kind offer.
I fold the tablecloth and stack the table and chair ready to go back to Fabien. I tie Ralph to another chair, this time outside Henri’s bistro, and give him a bone Henri has found for him to chew. Then, I pick up all the runaway macarons from the doorways of the shops opposite and sweep up those crushed underfoot with a broom borrowed from Henri. As I sweep, I spot something out of the corner of my eye. It must be what fell out of the shoplifter’s pocket, I think, as I reach down and pick it up. I stare at it and shove it into my own pocket. I have no idea what to do with it, but it must mean something to someone.
THIRTEEN
I sit outside Henri’s, at a table for two, next to the wooden railing with rectangular window boxes along the edge, filled with red geraniums, that denotes his terrace. As lovely as it looks, I’m feeling a little uncomfortable. This is a first for me. I have never eaten in a restaurant on my own before. I look around. Plenty of others are alone. Men and women. Not on their phones, they’re focusing on their food and taking in the passing world in front of them. I sit back and try to relax, letting the sun massage my face. Henri puts a small jug of rosé in front of me, then pours me a glass and tells me, ‘Enjoy!’
‘Are you going to join me?’ I ask, then realize I may be giving out the wrong signals.
He shakes his head and I feel a little relieved. ‘I still have a few customers to see to. Have an aperitif.’ He puts down a small plate of thinly sliced toast with terrine spread on the top and a sliced cornichon to the side. ‘I will bring you your lunch in a moment.’
I look down at Ralph and do exactly as I’m told. I attempt to enjoy it. But I can’t stop thinking about the young lad who stole from my stall. It didn’t seem like a prank or a dare. There were no other youngsters around. Why was Cora so wound up? And who owns the thing he dropped? The questions scratch at my brain.
I finish the morsels of toast and my first glass of wine without really noticing. Henri arrives and breaks into my thoughts. ‘Boeuf bourguignon,’ he says, and puts down a round white bowl, with a basket of sliced bread. Soft flaking beef, orange carrots, a deep rich brown gravy and herbs that remind me of my walk into town, herbes de Provence. My mouth waters. Then he pours me another glass of wine and I feel quite light-headed, as if my worries are drifting away. I may not have made a fortune today, but enough to pay Fabien back a little of what I owe him on account. And, once again, I feel honoured that he’s put his trust in me. I have been welcomed far enough into the community to be running a tab. He trusts me enough to believe that I can get this business up and running. I have somewhere to live and plans for the future. That can’t be a bad place to be. The sun, the food and, of course, the second glass of wine have lifted my spirits. I wonder what my friends would say if they could see me now, having lunch on my own, planning the next phase of my life. I wonder what Mum would have said.
She loved Ollie. He and I first met when he came into my department store one Christmas Eve, looking for a very late Christmas present for his girlfriend. He bought her eau de parfum, which I wrapped, then I wished him a merry Christmas. He told me he liked my smile, that I made him laugh, and he hoped my boyfriend knew what a lucky chap he was. I told him I’d been single for three months and was spending Christmas with my friends, Lou and Rhi. A week later, Christmas over, Ollie came back into the shop to tell me he was now single. His girlfriend had not appreciated the last-minute expensive perfume gift, especially as she’d sent him precise details of the shoes and handbag she wanted, and hinted that she’d been expecting a diamond ring and to announce their engagement. Instead she had announced the end of their relationship. He joked that he’d like a refund on the perfume, and asked if he could take me to dinner. I was twenty-nine, heading towards the big three-oh. Everything about Ollie just seemed right. It was like he’d been sent to me by Cupid. Here is Mr Right: ticks every box! We dated. Everyone thought we were the ideal couple. Mum was delighted. He seemed to fit right into her idea of the perfect husband for me, so that I would not make the mistakes she had made. I was never a mistake, she hastened to add. She always let me know that I was the best thing that had happened in her life, and I was determined to make her proud of me, to become a career woman, a family woman, everything that could make her proud. Not that she ever asked for those things. But the day I was promoted to department manager she was proud, as she was when Ollie and I stood at the altar, making our vows. Now, that seems so wrong.
My phone buzzes into life. It’s Rhi, asking what’s going on. She’s seen Ollie. Am I back? I feel guilty that I haven’t told her and Lou. But I’m not ready to explain that Ollie and I have come to the end of the road and I’m attempting to set up on my own. Then I do something else I’ve never done before. I lift my phone and take a photo of myself in the sunshine. I’ll send it to Rhi and Lou, tell
ing them I’m taking a little break and will be in touch soon. But I’m fine! And send the picture.
I put away my phone and dive back into the boeuf bourguignon, smelling of the herbs that fill the hillsides around here. There is something so comforting about it, as if Mum had served it to me, made with love. We didn’t have much money when I was growing up, but Mum always cooked for the two of us, and nothing was ever wasted. She could make a chicken last a week. Although I tell myself I won’t, I wipe up every bit of the juice with the bread. I can’t think when I last enjoyed a meal out so much. I don’t have to worry about Ollie and his frustration, our dwindling finances, or watch his fingers twitch, desperate to get back on his phone as soon as the meal has ended.
Henri is taking payments and, as he passes my table, he tips the last of the wine in the little jug into my glass. I almost protest but then think, Why not?
‘Take your time,’ he says. ‘Now, for dessert.’ He pulls a face. ‘I’m afraid I only have ice lollies left. Actually, it’s all I had … vanille, fraise, chocolat.’ He goes to the chest freezer and pulls out ice lollies on sticks.
‘I couldn’t eat another thing, but merci.’
He puts the lollies away and shuts the door. Then he reappears outside. ‘Café,’ he says. He puts down a cup and saucer in front of me and another next to it. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’ The little restaurant is practically empty now. He can’t make much of a living with such a small place. Small but perfect. I think of the bistros on the main road, fancy and expensive, especially the one with the terrace in front of the church that Ollie insisted on frequenting … mostly because it had a good Wi-Fi connection.
Henri bends down and rubs Ralph’s head affectionately, then sits in the cool of the awning and sips his coffee.
‘That was delicious, Henri. Are you sure I can’t pay you?’ I reach for my bag but he holds up a hand.