A French Pirouette

by Jennifer Bohnet

  “I do love you,” Brigitte said, leaning forward to kiss his cheek in a rare display of emotion. “I will cook you a special meal tonight.”

  “Chicken in your wine sauce? Raspberry pavlova?”

  “I’ll be back in an hour to organise it,” Brigitte promised, picking up her bag and coat.

  Making her way through the village, Brigitte turned left and took the long flight of narrow steps down the side of La Poste and stepped onto the canal path. Five minutes later and she was opening the auberge gate.

  The door of the gîte was open and Brigitte could see Libby inside rearranging furniture.

  “Hi,” Libby said, panting from the exertion of pushing the two-seater settee into its new position under the window. “Just giving the place a bit of an airing and thought I’d change things around a bit. What d’you think?”

  Brigitte nodded. “Looks better. You have bookings for it?”

  “No,” Libby said. “I wanted to get it ready for the summer.” She glanced across at Brigitte. “Did you use it much? I know Dan and I stayed in it one weekend when we came unexpectedly and you were full but I can’t remember anybody staying in it other times when we visited.”

  “People seemed to prefer the auberge itself,” Brigitte said. “I did rent it out for winter a few years ago but there are so many gîtes around people are spoilt for choice.”

  “I’ll keep it for visiting family and friends then,” Libby said. “Maybe at the end of the season see if anyone would like to rent it for winter.”

  “Chloe get off all right?” Brigitte asked.

  Libby smiled. “Yes and arrived safely. She sent me a text at midnight last night to tell me!”

  “She woke you up?”

  “No. Evie and I were still in the kitchen talking. I’d invited her to join me for supper,” Libby explained. “Seemed silly not to when we were both alone.”

  Last evening had turned into an unexpected girly evening as the two of them had got to know each other. “Shame she’s only here for a week before she returns to Paris. I think she’s a very private person though,” Libby said now to Brigitte. “She didn’t really tell me a lot about herself.”

  Evie, who had assumed Libby was divorced, had been mortified when Libby told her she was a widow.

  “You are so brave starting a new life here, in a foreign country, alone. I do not think I could ever do that.”

  Libby had shrugged. “It’s an adventure. If it doesn’t work out I can always return to England. What do you do when you’re not ill?” She remembered registering Evie’s hesitant pause before she answered.

  “I work in entertainment for the moment. I too am coming to—how you say in English—a crossroads in my life. I have to decide what to do next.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Paris.”

  “Well there’ll be lots of opportunities up there I expect for you,” Libby had said.

  Evie had shaken her head, said, “I’m not so sure,” before changing the subject and asking Libby about Chloe and her planned career.

  The rest of the evening had passed pleasantly as they’d made each other giggle with stories about their different life experiences, although Libby realised later that it was her life with Dan that had been the main subject of conversation. Not once had Evie mentioned having a partner, or a boyfriend, in her life.

  Chloe’s text message to reassure her mother about her safe arrival at Helen’s had been the signal for them to finally say goodnight and go to bed.

  “You have made a new friend,” Brigitte said.

  “You know, I think I have,” Libby said. “Brigitte, can I talk to you about the guests who arrive next weekend? They’re regulars, aren’t they? Any tips on what they like and don’t like? They want dinner every evening.”

  Brigitte laughed. “That would be the Bichets. They usually come at this time of year. You will like them. For dinner they like lots of salads and charcuterie, but they do not like garlic. They love chocolate desserts and they like their coffee really really strong.”

  “A non-garlic-liking French family? I don’t believe it.” Libby laughed and turned as there was a gentle knock on the door.

  “Hi. May I come in?” Evie said.

  “Bonjour, Madame Patem,” Brigitte said politely.

  “Bonjour,” Evie answered.

  “How’s your arm?” Libby asked.

  “Still painful but better. The pharmacy gave me some ointment to help bring the bruising out. Suggested a sling but—” Evie shrugged “—I prefer not. My ankle being strapped is enough. This is nice. You have guests coming in here?”

  Libby shook her head. “No. I’m going to keep it for when family and friends visit and the auberge is full. Chloe has a bedroom in my apartment so I’m not expecting this gîte to be used that much.” She looked at the expensive camera Evie had hanging around her neck. “You’re obviously a keen photographer—I wouldn’t know where to start with a camera that complicated. Has to be a simple point and click for me!”

  Evie smiled. “It’s easy really. I’m going to sit on the bench alongside the canal to take some photos. I saw a beautiful heron earlier. I would love to capture a picture of him.”

  “Before you go, Madame Patem, Libby is coming for lunch with Bruno and me on Thursday—perhaps you would care to join us?” Brigitte smiled at Evie.

  “That is very kind of you. I’d love to. And, please, call me Evie. Thank you. Libby, I’ll see you later.” And Evie turned to make her way slowly towards the canal path.

  Chapter Six

  Suzette/Evie

  The next morning Napoleon, crowing just yards away from her bedroom window, startled Suzette into fitful consciousness. She’d never known such a raucous alarm clock. Like yesterday morning it took her several seconds to realise what the noise was and where she actually was.

  As realisation dawned, the same jumbled, panic-stricken thoughts began to stampede through her mind. What was she doing here? She’d been stupid to leave Monaco without telling someone—Malik, anyone—what she was planning to do. If anything happened to her here nobody would know.

  Malik. How had he reacted when the hotel concierge had handed him her note? The press would know all about the accident by now. She could just see the headlines in the Nice Matin: ‘Has a jeté too many finished accident-prone Suzette Shelby’s career?’

  As for telling Libby that she was Madame Evie Patem—what had she been thinking? Why was she trying to keep her whereabouts secret?

  Did it really matter to the media where she recovered after this latest accident? Of course not. But she was so tired of fending off questions about injuries, about her imminent retirement. All they seemed to want to do was tell the world that she was past it.

  Well she wasn’t past it yet! With a week or two of country living and no stress in her life, her ankle and arm would both mend and she’d be ready to return to Paris and prepare for the autumn show.

  Idly she reached out and picked up her mobile phone from the bedside table. Time to check for messages. Below the first missed text message from Malik, “Chérie, I hope you had a good journey back to Paris. Look after yourself. I will see you soon. L. xxx.”, there was also a whole new bunch of voice messages. All demanding to know why the hell she wasn’t talking to him.

  Suzette felt a guilty pang for switching off her mobile phone for the past couple of days. She knew she owed Malik an explanation. Her finger hovered over the reply button before she remembered the time and replaced the phone back on the table. Malik wasn’t known for being an early riser. If she woke him he was sure to be grumpy with her. She’d ring him later at a more civilised hour.

  Fully awake now, Suzette pushed the duvet away and got up, wincing as her right foot touched the floor. Her ankle, still too painful and swollen to start exercising it, now sported a mass of fading psychedelic blue, black and yellow bruises as she took the support bandaging off.

  Ten minutes later Suzette collapsed back on the bed exhausted
from trying to stand and wash in the shower. It would have been easier to jump in the bath. Towelling her hair dry she looked at the brown pixie-cut wig on the dressing table.

  She’d been determined to keep her flight from Monaco out of the papers and hiding her hair under a wig with a totally different style to her normal one had been the answer to her passing incognito through the airport. The question now though was, did she continue to wear the wig and keep up the pretence here in the wilds of northwest France?

  If she pushed Suzette Shelby into the background of her life for a week, would it help her to decide about life without dancing—or not? Was this the chance she needed to truly be herself? Decide which way to go for the rest of her life?

  Apart from anything else, how embarrassing it would be to go downstairs and say, “Actually Libby, my name is Suzette Shelby. I’m a ballerina—you may have heard of me.” The evening she’d had supper with Libby in the kitchen she’d felt so comfortable, felt that they were on similar wavelengths as well as being similar in age. The close confines of the world of dance she’d lived in for all her adult life until now, meant that the opportunities to make friends—proper girl friends—had passed her by. As Evie, surely she’d find it easier to make and keep Libby’s friendship?

  Decision made, she pulled the wig into position over her head. While she was staying at the Auberge du Canal she would be Evie—and leave the missing Suzette Shelby to deal with the world she’d left behind at a later date.

  Her mobile buzzed. Malik. He was up early for once. Taking a deep breath, she pressed his number.

  “Where the hell are you?” Malik demanded angrily when he answered. “I’ve been off my head with worry with you not answering my calls.”

  Suzette sighed. She’d been dreading this conversation.

  “I’m sorry. I was going to call you later today. I’m just having a little holiday where no one knows who I am,” she said. “I’m sorry you’ve been worried, but I’m fine.”

  “You being fine isn’t enough. For goodness’ sake, Suzette, the press will have a field day with you when they find out you’ve gone missing.”

  “They don’t have to find out,” Suzette said. “I’m not planning on telling them and I hope you won’t? All I’m asking for is some private time to really think about my future while my ankle heals.”

  “Why can’t you do that in your apartment in Paris?”

  “Because I can’t.” How to explain that everything crowded in on her there? Stopped her thinking coherently. Too many memories, too many might-have-beens and definitely too many regrets about her life there. Here she hoped she could truly step back and think about life dispassionately. Work out a plan.

  Malik was silent. Even down the phone line Suzette could sense his frustration.

  “How did Monaco go in the end? Donna perform well?” she asked, hoping to change the conversation.

  “Yes,” Malik said. “She’s a star in the making that’s for sure.”

  It was Suzette’s turn to be silent. So many years since that had been said about her.

  “How’s the ankle?” Malik asked.

  “Responding well to gentle exercise,” Suzette lied, standing on one leg and wincing as she tried to make a circling movement with the offending ankle. No point in telling Malik it wasn’t fit enough to exercise yet.

  “Good. I presume you’re still planning on doing Swan Lake with me? You’ll need to be in tip-top condition for that.”

  “Stop worrying,” Suzette answered. “My ankle will be good by then.”

  “So, exactly how long are you planning to stay wherever it is you are?” Malik demanded. “Likely to be back before I go off to Geneva next weekend? Can’t mention any names but somebody there is interested in sponsoring a modern ballet I’m keen to choreograph so I have to go for a meetup.”

  “I’m staying here for the week, so no, I won’t be back before you go to Geneva,” Suzette said. “I’ll talk to you when you get back.”

  Although clearly disgruntled with that answer, Malik didn’t press her on the subject again and the call ended.

  Thoughtfully Suzette crossed over to the bedroom window and stared out at the canal and the wood on the far side. Down below in the auberge grounds, Napoleon and the chickens were enjoying dust baths over by the fence.

  She’d not been entirely truthful with Malik when she’d told him she intended to stay for just the rest of the week. If she was brave enough to put the idea that had occurred to her in the middle of the night into practice, she would be here for the whole of the summer. Alone and anonymous with nobody from her real world having any idea where she was.

  She just hoped she could persuade Libby about the feasibility of her idea. She’d wait a couple of days before putting the suggestion to her. Crossing her fingers tightly, Evie hoped Libby wouldn’t dismiss the idea out of hand.

  Chapter Seven

  Brigitte

  Brigitte hummed softly to herself as she weighed, chopped and mixed various ingredients for the recipes she was preparing for the celebratory lunch she was cooking. It was not yet nine o’clock but she’d been busy for a couple of hours and already the result of her labours were showing.

  Looking around her kitchen Brigitte sighed with satisfaction. The yeasty bread rolls were rising nicely in the small oven of her new top-of-the-range cooker, the duck was marinating in a red wine sauce on the worktop and the rouleau filled with chocolate cream and covered with white chocolate was rolled up and in the fridge.

  Her wonderful modern kitchen was living up to all her expectations—she was going to be so happy preparing meals in here. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed feeding friends and family. When Isabelle had left home, guests at the auberge had filled the cooking gap in her life but now there was only Bruno to feed regularly. She’d have to invite friends around often, she decided.

  The sun was shining in through the kitchen window and she could see the willow tree with its newly green leafy fronds quivering in the gentle breeze as she set the coffee to brew. Bruno came in just as the coffee finished percolating.

  “Good timing,” she said reaching for two cups. “Biscuit?”

  “Thanks. Furniture cleaned and back out under the loggia ready for lunch,” Bruno said. “We could sit out there now.”

  Sitting companionably drinking their coffee, Brigitte said, “Everything’s beginning to come together here,” she said. “I’m really looking forward to today’s lunch—although I hope I’ve done the right thing inviting Evie.”

  Bruno glanced at her, surprised. “Why?”

  “I told Pascal it would be just Libby—you know how shy he can be with strangers—and I don’t think he’d have agreed to come if he thought it would be more than just the three of us. I didn’t think about him when I invited Evie.”

  Bruno shrugged. “It’s not as if it’s a huge crowd. Pascal will be fine. It’s only when his mother is around that he tends to clam up. You haven’t invited her, have you?”

  Brigitte laughed. “Non.” She hesitated before adding, “I hope Libby and Pascal get on.”

  Bruno wagged a finger at her. “You’re not matchmaking are you?”

  Brigitte shook her head. “Non. But they are both single so anything is possible.”

  “And you plan to help them along,” Bruno said smiling. “Lunch should be interesting.”

  Libby and Evie arrived together promptly at twelve o’clock in the village taxi. Evie, knowing there was still no way her ankle was up to walking to Brigitte and Bruno’s, had invited Libby to share the ride.

  The four of them were sipping aperitifs when Pascal arrived. Brigitte quickly introduced Evie to Pascal.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said shaking her hand. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Brittany.” He looked at her for several seconds before adding, “Would we have met before?”

  Evie laughed. “I don’t think so. I only arrived a few days ago.”

  “Evie lives in Paris,” Libby said. “So unless
you frequent the city?”

  Pascal visibly blanched at her words. “I hate cities so rarely go—even to Paris.” He turned again to Evie. “It must be that you remind me of someone else.”

  Once their starters were finished—individual walnut and onion tarts with a salad—Brigitte placed the duck with asparagus and sauté potatoes on the table to accompanying cries of delight. “Enjoy.”

  “This is so delicious,” Libby said a few minutes later. “I have a favour to ask,” she said addressing Brigitte. “I’m going to need some help during the daytime and with the evening meals—especially at weekends. Any chance of you being free? Just until I’ve got into the swing of things. Only if you’ve got time and want to,” she added. “If not can you recommend someone?”

  Brigitte sighed. “Libby I’d love to.” She glanced at Bruno. “But Bruno here, he no want me to work every day.”

  Bruno shrugged his shoulders. “You decide but remember our plan to have several vacances this year.”

  “Maybe I come just on Saturdays?” Brigitte said. “I will tell a woman in the village, Agnes, that you need help during the week. She is a good worker.”

  “Thanks,” Libby said. Hopefully this Agnes would want a job and be as good as Brigitte said.

  Bruno was busy filling wine glasses when Brigitte said, “I’m thinking about starting a monthly Ladies’ Supper Club here. I miss the cooking and now I have this wonderful new kitchen I must put it to use and if I feed Bruno too much he will get fat.”

  “Brilliant idea,” Libby said. “Can I be your first member?”

  “It is a shame to limit it to the ladies though,” Pascal said. “Why not a Supper Club open to all?”

  “Maybe that would be a better idea,” Brigitte said.

  It was two hours later, after the chocolate rouleau had been eaten and the coffee and petits fours served, when Pascal pushed his chair back and apologised. “Brigitte, that was a wonderful lunch but I am sorry—I have to go back to work.”

  He turned to Libby and Evie. “May I offer you both a lift back to the auberge?”