by Leah Hope
“It seems to me that the Mayor in France is still all-powerful, despite the rules, said Gil, “but would a different Mayor make a different decision?”
“They might,” said Tony, “but there’s no guarantee.”
“It might be worth a go though, how long has this Sellier chap got left to serve?” asked Gil.
“Just over a year I think,” said Doug, “and rumour has it he’s standing down at the next election, had enough by all accounts. I can’t say I blame him, especially after the incident with Janot.”
“Maybe you could sit it out and try again after the election, you never know, a new Mayor might take a completely different view, a new broom and all that,” Gil suggested.
“I don’t think we can last that long,” said Tony. Suddenly, all the colour drained from his face until he was as pale as his wife.
Doug was about to trot out one of his usual platitudes, but seeing the look of utter desperation on Tony’s face he thought better of it. The others had seen it too and the conversation came to an end with an uncomfortable silence.
Helen, who had been listening to Tony intently, suddenly glanced in Heather’s direction. Noticing tears welling up in her eyes she said, “I think it’s time we sampled the delicious desserts that Bridget’s so kindly made. Could you give me a hand please Heather? We’ll bring out a selection and everyone can help themselves.”
“Yes of course” said Heather and followed Helen meekly indoors.
“Are things really as bad as that Tony?” said Bridget a soon as Heather was safely out of earshot.
“To tell you the truth Bridget, they’re much worse. Don’t say anything to Heather but the money my father left me is nearly all gone, I’ve had to use it to buy stock but when it runs out, we’ll be on our uppers. You can see the state Heather’s in, she’s not sleeping or eating much and she’s been knocking the drink back, which isn’t like her at all. The real reason we went back to the UK was not because her mother’s ill, well that’s not completely untrue, she did have a touch of flu but nothing serious, but I really thought Heather was going to crack up if I didn’t get her away for a few days.”
“Oh dear, did it do any good? She still looks very fragile, if you don’t mind my saying,” said Bridget.
“She was ok when we were there, she cheered up a bit when she saw her mother and family, but as soon as we were on the plane home, you could almost see the tension come flooding back.”
“That’s the trouble with worries, you can rarely leave them behind,” said Bridget.
“Tell me about it!” said Tony with such a note of anguish in his voice that Bridget got up and put a friendly arm around his shoulder.
“I’m ok, really, but, please, not a word to Heather,” Tony said, putting a hand on Bridget’s arm, “I don’t think she can cope with much more at the moment.”
Thankfully, the mood lightened as Helen and Heather returned shortly afterwards, each carrying a tray which bore a selection of Bridget’s desserts.
“These look delicious,” said Genevieve standing up to take a closer look. “If you ever need a job as a pastry chef, let me know!” she said, helping herself to a slice of cheesecake.
“Genni’s father has got his own restaurant in London,” said Max, who was already halfway through a bowlful of tiramisu, “so she’s quite serious.”
“I’m very flattered,” said Bridget, blushing slightly, “but I only cook for pleasure these days. I used to work in a hotel myself many years ago, but I don’t think I could stand the pace or the pressure now. But I’d love to hear more about your father’s restaurant Genevieve, how did he get started?”
“He was head chef at a small restaurant just outside Paris and when I was two he got headhunted by a top west end restaurant in London, so we all moved to the UK. He loved the job but I think every ambitious chef dreams of their own restaurant and my father was no exception, so he set his mind on getting his own place one day.”
“I can certainly vouch for that,” said Gil, “there’s nothing like being your own boss, it’s hard work of course but I wouldn’t dream of working for someone else now.”
“You’re right about the hard work,” Genevieve replied, “and it was even tougher when he eventually opened his own place five years ago. It paid off though because he got his first Michelin star just three years later and he’s never been happier. It’s quite a family affair as my mother still does front of house a few nights a week and Max and I contribute by eating there as often as we can!” said Genevieve, helping herself to a second portion of cheesecake.
“How on earth do you keep your slim figure, I notice that you’ve got quite a, er, healthy appetite, which is lovely to see as so many young girls just pick at their food these days, well according to what you read anyway,” said Bridget, hoping she hadn’t caused offence.
“I certainly love my food, I think if you’re French it’s something you never lose, no matter where you live. I try to keep healthy though, Max and I jog most mornings before work and we go the gym at least twice a week, so that helps to keep me trim. I would like to say it’s in my genes as my mother is still very slim, but I can’t as I’m adopted!” said Genevieve, laughing. “It’ll probably all catch up with me in a few years’ time!”
“Well if it does, I’ll still love you!” said Max, putting his arm around his fiancée’s trim waist. “But I don’t think there’s much chance of you turning into Miss Piggy just yet, not when we both burn up a million calories a day at very stressful jobs.”
“So what do you do?” asked Gil.
“We both work in the City making other people very rich, and ourselves a little bit too of course. We’ll both be thirty-five in five years’ time and we’ve decided that as we’ll probably be burnt out by then we’ll get out and spend the rest of our lives doing what we want to do,” said Max.
“And what do you want to do exactly? You’re very young to be retiring,” said Bridget.
“I want to have lots of children, well at least three,” said Genevieve. “I think that’ll be plenty to keep my busy.”
“Well, we definitely want to live in France,” said Max, “but after that, I’m not too sure. I’ve always had a hankering to own a vineyard though. I really fancy the idea of sitting on a sunny terrace somewhere sipping my own wine.”
“I keep telling him that you can make a small fortune out of owning a vineyard,” said his father, “provided you start with a large one!” said Doug, laughing heartily at his own joke.
“Yes, I know it’s not really a goer,” said Max, “bit out of my league, but I’ve also been thinking about importing classic cars, what do you think Gil, is there a market for that sort of thing?”
“Well there’s certainly big money to be made, but you need to know what you’re doing, I would definitely recommend a first-rate mechanic.”
“That’s very sound advice, now I wonder where I can get one of those!” teased Max.
“Well you’ll have to shop round for a really top notch one, but I think Faulkner and Honeyman has got quite a ring to it,” said Gil.
“I’ll drink to that!” said Max.
Chapter Eight
Precisely one week later, on the morning of the fourteenth of July, the hot summer sun shone brightly on Saint-Rémy as it prepared itself for the Bastille Day celebrations. Flags flew from every building in the square where it seemed the whole village had turned out to help get everything ready for the night’s festivities. The Hotel Mirabeau was sporting bunting too and Pete and Nick were already outside on the terrace arranging tables. Things didn’t seem to be quite going to plan though, if the black looks that passed between them were anything to go by. Soon their raised voices, interspersed with some choice expletives, reached Gil and Bridget as they sat outside Chez Mimi, the little café across the square. “Sounds as if they’re blaming each other for over-booking the gourmet evening,” Gil said sipping his coffee. “I’d put money on it being Nick’s fault rather than Pete’s.”
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“Oh, I do hope they haven’t double–booked our table,” said Bridget, suddenly concerned. “I’ve so been looking forward to tonight.”
“I don’t think we need worry,” Gil replied as he caught sight of Pete and Nick moving tables back and fore, desperately trying to fit in the extra ones that would be needed.
The little café was bustling as tired locals took refuge from the heat and the morning’s exertions. Gil and Bridget laughed as they watched the ongoing antics at the Mirabeau.
“Rather them than me, this weather’s far too hot to be doing anything strenuous,” said Gil, adjusting their table’s yellow umbrella so that he was once more in the shade.
“Look!” said Bridget, pointing to the centre of the square. “Isn’t that Max and Genevieve?” Bridget stood up and waved vigorously.
“Hello you two,” said Bridget as the couple spotted her waving and approached their table. “We didn’t expect to see you again so soon, what a lovely surprise.”
“We’d always planned to be here this weekend, there’s only one place to be on the fourteenth of July!” said Genevieve, sitting down next to Bridget. “Last weekend’s flying visit was a last-minute thing to see my grandmother on her birthday. Mum and Dad had done a major juggling act so that they could both visit her but they had problems with two of the ovens on Friday evening and they had to stay to sort things out so Max and I went instead. That’s the trouble with being a Michelin star restaurant, you can’t afford to let your standards drop for a second, even if it is for something that’s out of your control.”
“Still, it’s great to be here again,” said Max, “we’ve both got next week off work so we don’t have to rush back on Sunday evening, bliss!”
“I expect your parents are pleased to have you both here again. What are you all doing this evening?” asked Bridget.
“Pete roped us all in for his gourmet evening, Tony and Heather couldn’t escape either!” said Max.
“Oh, we’re going too,” said Bridget excitedly. “I hope we manage to get tables together, I think there’s been a bit of a mix up with the bookings.”
“I’ll go and have a word with Pete now, see what he can do,” said Gil as he got up from his seat and headed across the square. Two minutes later he was back.
“All sorted, I’ve spoken to Nick, Pete’s just nipped to Janot’s to get some more vegetables for this evening, and he says he’ll do his best to put us all together.”
“That’s great, I’m sure we’ll have a brilliant time. The atmosphere on Bastille Day is pure carnival, I’m really looking forward to this evening,” said Genevieve, getting up. “Sorry we’ve got to dash, Helen’s asked me to give her a hand with the floral arrangements for the house, it’s not really my thing but she likes the place to look nice on special days as she says you never know who might drop in! See you both this evening,” and with a wave they were gone.
“We’d better be getting back too,” said Gil, “if last weekend was anything to go by, you’ll need the rest of the day to get ready!”
“Cheeky!” came his sister’s reply.
*
As evening descended on Saint-Rémy, the village was abuzz with a tingle of anticipation and excitement that was almost tangible. Every minute that passed brought more and more people into the square, which looked as if it might burst at the seams at any minute. On the stage, men setting up the sound system bumped into musicians trying to tune up, while the compere for the evening’s entertainment got himself so tangled in cabling while rehearsing his opening spot that for a time there was no electricity in the village at all. No one seemed to mind. Saint-Rémy and the old men who sat quietly sipping their pastis had seen it all before of course and could afford to just nod and smile at the goings-on, safe in the knowledge that by some unexplained miracle, order would emerge triumphantly from chaos, as it always did.
On the two longer sides of the square, stallholders were putting the finishing touches to their displays of wares for the night market. There was the usual impressive array of fresh local produce so typical of French markets, but it would be the stalls serving hot food, to be eaten pique-nique style at the nearby trestle tables, which would be the most popular tonight. Soon the enticing aromas of moules-frites, pizza, spit-roast chicken, escargots heavily laced with garlic and butter, sausages, cassoulet, steak-hache and enormous langoustines and crevettes would fill the square. For those whose appetites were not completely satisfied, there would be freshly baked patisseries, crepes, ridiculously sweet beignets, ice-creams, meringues and bons-bons to follow.
Much to Gil’s relief, he and Bridget arrived in the square at 7.00pm, a full half hour before their table would be ready.
“We’ll have time to look around first before we sit down,” said Bridget, wandering amongst the fresh produce stalls. “This is what makes France for me,” she said to her brother, “warm summer evenings and everyone out enjoying the pleasures of good food, it really does lift the spirit, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. It makes me wonder why we’ve never been here for the Bastille Day celebrations before, the atmosphere is amazing and the square looks so pretty.”
“We’ll certainly have to come again,” said Gil, who had been eyeing some punnets of bright red strawberries, but wondering how he would get them home safely, decided against buying. “Come on,” he said, “let’s make our way over to the Mirabeau, let’s see if the others are there yet.”
As they pushed their way through the ever-increasing throng, Gil and Bridget could make out the distinctive claret and blue polo shirts (probably the colours of Pete’s favourite Aussie rules team, Gil thought) worn by the Mirabeau staff as they darted deftly back and fore amongst the tables on the terrace. They were clearly rushed off their feet as they tried to keep up with the incessant stream of early orders for food, drinks and coffees. As they got nearer, Gil and Bridget spotted the unmistakeable blonde heads of the Faulkner trio.
“There they are!” said Bridget, hurrying towards the table where the three were already seated sipping their complimentary champagne. “He’s given us a good table hasn’t he?” said Bridget to the group, after the ritual greetings.
“Yes, Nick’s done us proud,” said Doug. “I’ll try to catch his eye and get him to bring your champers.”
“Others not here yet?” asked Gil, noticing three empty chairs.
“Genevieve’s just powdering her nose but Tony and Heather haven’t arrived yet,” Doug answered.
At that moment, Genevieve emerged from inside the hotel and made her way back to the table.
“You look very pretty tonight,” said Bridget.
Genevieve was wearing a cobalt blue sheath dress which suited her colouring perfectly. Helen was wearing a strappy sundress of the palest duck-egg blue which she had co-ordinated perfectly with a necklace of chunky coffee coloured glass beads, her hair once more in an elegant chignon. Bridget looked down at her own flowing ankle length cotton dress, adorned with large navy and white flowers with bright yellow centres, disappointed that she had got it wrong yet again.
“You look lovely too!” beamed Genevieve. “Those colours really suit you,” leaning over to kiss Bridget once on each cheek.
Bridget accepted the compliment graciously but inwardly knew that Genevieve was only being polite.
After what seemed an eternity, a very flustered looking Nick Webster arrived at the table.
“Sorry about the wait guys, but as you can see we’re a tad busy tonight. Can I get you two a glass of champagne?” he said, looking at Gil and Bridget. Not waiting for an answer, he turned and hurried inside towards the bar.
“Pete must be very pleased with the turnout tonight,” said Doug, “he’ll be spending all day tomorrow counting the tills. Still, he deserves to get on, he puts a lot of effort in.”
Nick was soon back at the table with two glasses of champagne.
“Ready for the first course in a few minutes?”
“We’re still waiting for T
ony and Heather,” Helen replied, “so we’d better hang on for a bit.”
“I’m starving,” said Max, “I hope they’re not going to be much longer.”
“Well you won’t have to wait any longer, here they are now,” said Doug, standing up and waving so that the Lloyd-Jones could spot him in the crowd.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Tony breathlessly, “had a bit of paperwork to do at the shop and we lost track of time.”
Heather was smartly dressed in white wide legged trousers and a beaded black top and looked more much more relaxed than on the previous weekend.
“Let’s get you some champagne and then we can get down to the food,” said Doug somewhat impatiently.
“But we haven’t even had the menus yet,” said Bridget, “it’ll be an age before we eat.”
“There aren’t any menus tonight Bridget, you just get what they bring,” said Helen.
“Oh, I hope there aren’t any snails or frogs legs,” said Bridget, suddenly looking rather worried. “I really don’t think I could bring myself to eat those.”
“Don’t worry,” said Helen reassuringly, “I’m sure Pete will have played it safe, there are too many of us Brits around for him to be over-adventurous.”
“I don’t care what it is, just as long as I get it soon!” laughed Max.
“I’ll second that,” said Gil, “my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut!”
Doug at last caught Nick’s eye and nodded to indicate that they were now ready for the first course.
“We haven’t decided on wine” he said, “but I suggest that as we all seem to be very happy with the champagne, we stick with that,” quickly adding that it would be his treat when he saw the look of panic in Tony’s eyes.
The first course was a selection of hors d’oeuvres of smoked duck breast, fresh figs wrapped in Bayonne ham and Roquefort, and tiny slivers of smoked salmon filled with salmon mousse, served with cornichons and olives.