Page 55 of Thirty Days in Paris

Eloise stood at the head of the island, in crisp chef’s whites, running them through the order of the morning. All the equipment they needed was laid out in front of them, along with the ingredients.

‘We have a lot to get through, so you’ll have to focus. But by the end of the morning, you’ll be able to cater your own drinks party and wow your guests with your skills.’ She twinkled. ‘This is all made from scratch, except the pastry, so they’ll be super impressed. I’ll give you the recipes to take away, but remember: organisation and preparation is the key. You can’t get halfway through and think, shoot, I forgot the Parmesan.’

Juliet laughed along with everyone else. That was so her. She wasn’t a bad cook, but she knew she was a disorganised one. Always running out of self-raising flour and replacing it with plain, or substituting muscovado for demerara sugar.

‘So here’s our menu. We’ll start with the gougères – basically choux pastry with cheese. Then the Roquefort tartlets. Mini savoury madeleines you will fall in love with – if you want to buy a madeleine tin to take home, may I point you in the direction of E. Dehillerin, where Julia Child used to get her cookware.’

There was a collective sigh of longing. Juliet made a note to visit – another great feature idea, for who didn’t love a bit of kitchen porn? She sat back and let Eloise’s words wash over her. She had forgotten how much she loved learning. Loved watching someone who knew what they were doing. Loved to be inspired to push herself into something new. She needed to do more of that.

As the class began to gather their ingredients and watch Eloise demonstrate the rigours of choux pastry – theoretically simple, but there were tricks to getting it just right – she felt herself beginning to relax. It was great to be working under someone else’s instruction, instead of having to be self-motivated. Cooking together was soothing. It had a rhythm to it and a camaraderie. They were all scared to make mistakes, yet they all knew it didn’t matter. It was canapés, not brain surgery. And Eloise was a great teacher. Quick to correct mistakes, and very disciplined – safety was paramount, and hygiene – but she made everything look easy and was very encouraging. The kitchen skills of the students ranged from clueless to semi-professional, but no one showed off. They were all in it together to have fun.

At the end of the first hour, the air was filled with the scent of baking and buttery fried onions which were going to become a compôte to serve on the side. As they broke for coffee, Juliet chatted to the women beside her, two friends from York who were here as a fiftieth birthday treat to themselves. She liked them immediately. They were her kind of women: smart and funny and warm.

When they found out Juliet and Stuart had separated amicably, they were agog.

‘Oh my goodness,’ sighed Sarah. ‘You’re so lucky. I love Philip dearly, but he drives me insane. He’s obsessed with bloody golf. We never see each other. He won’t even have noticed I’m not there. Not until he needs clean underwear.’

‘Quite,’ said Lisa. ‘We often say we should all swap houses. Men in one, and us girls in the other. They could visit us from time to time.’

‘Not for that, though,’ laughed Sarah. ‘I’m all done with bedroom antics.’ She gave a little shudder. ‘Is it great, not to be, you know, bothered? By your husband, I mean?’

Juliet wasn’t sure how to answer. It felt disloyal to Stuart.

‘I’m just getting used to my freedom,’ she said. ‘And there are things I miss. I’m still very fond of him.’

As she said it, she realised she was. She was nearly at the end of her first week in Paris, and so much had happened that she hadn’t had much time to think about him, but suddenly it hit her. These women would be going back home at the end of the week to their husbands, but she wouldn’t be. Ever again. A wave of something like homesickness hit her. The women were looking at her with wide-eyed envy, but suddenly she envied them. The note-swapping of what had gone on over the weekend, the little rituals of home, the way the tasks were shared out – Stuart would always put her passport back in the safe whenever they got home, in case of burglary. She was going to be responsible for her passport now for the rest of her life. She was perfectly capable of it, but that wasn’t the point. It was that unspoken looking-after she was going to miss. The thought that someone cared about you enough to do those little things automatically.

‘Are you OK?’ said Eloise, coming by to inspect their efforts.

‘I’m fine,’ replied Juliet. ‘This is such fun. Don’t worry, I’m taking notes.’

‘No problem,’ said Eloise. ‘I just thought you looked at a loss.’

Maybe I am at a loss, thought Juliet. Maybe I’ve been in denial ever since I got here, chasing around after forgotten dreams and lost love. Trying to live out some fantasy. Maybe I need to get my shit together.

She needed somewhere to live, and a life plan, and some structure. She might have money in the bank, but she wasn’t old or rich enough to stop working, not for at least another ten years. What was she thinking, drifting around Paris buying pains au raisin and pretending to be a proper writer?

‘Oeufs mimosas,’ said Eloise, plonking a pan full of freshly boiled quail eggs in front of them. ‘Would you peel those for me, please?’

By lunchtime, the island was filled with plates full of their accomplishments, and Eloise served them all a glass of crémant de Loire while they devoured their handiwork.

‘Why don’t you come to my apartment for a drink before you go home?’ Juliet asked Sarah and Lisa on impulse. ‘I can practise my canapé skills on you.’

‘We won’t want to leave, though.’

‘You’ll give us ideas.’

They looked at each other. ‘Thirty days in Paris,’ said Lisa. ‘Can you imagine?’

‘We could do it,’ said Sarah. ‘What’s stopping us?’

Juliet laughed, and they arranged to come over on Monday night, and she gave them her address. Was she going to start a trend? Was Paris going to be inundated with flocks of women coming to reinvent themselves?

When the class ended, she went back via E. Dehillerin and wandered the aisles in amazement. It was like stepping back in time, the shelves crammed with every utensil you could possibly imagine, and several things she had no idea what to do with. The copperware was the most lusted after – gleaming golden saucepans, pots and moulds lined the wall – but there were more workaday items too, like chopping blocks, whisks, rolling pins.

She had to buy a madeleine pan, and a couple of wooden spoons, too, to christen the kitchen in wherever she was going to end up. She felt like a tourist asking the assistant for her paltry items, but at least she tried to speak French and was pleased to make herself understood. Delighted with her wares, she headed back home.

When she got to the apartment, her misgivings of earlier faded. She turned on the lamps, lit her scented candle, put on some music and felt a sense of peace settle over her. She started to write a list of what she would need for when Lisa and Sarah came to visit. Then she thought – why not have a few more people? Do apéro dînatoire with the things she’d learned? She could ask Melissa and Bernard, and Nathalie, of course – the bar was shut on a Monday night, so she would be free, hopefully.

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