Page 14 of Love In Provence
‘Beef thingy!’ I say out loud, trying to shake the fuzz that’s descended. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I say, more quietly, to myself. ‘Beefdaube. Come on! You make it every week!’
It’s always beefdaubefor the welcome dinner. Just as Henri taught me. Feeds a crowd, filling and restorative for those who have had long journeys.
I put my head in my hands. Just start, Del! But I can’t. I’m just staring at the ingredients in front of me. And I should have put it on hours ago. What was I thinking? Clearly nothing! I have to do something. I can’t remember how I usually make this. I go to Google and follow a recipe from a well-known site there. It’s not the same, nowhere near, but at least it’s something. I mix the ingredients together and put it into the oven, then head upstairs for a short nap, closing the shutters, turning on the fan, and fall into the heaviest sleep.
I wake feeling totally bleary. My brain’s a fug. I’m disoriented. Like I’ve climbed out of a deep pit and am trying to work out where I am. I’m in my bedroom. It’s late afternoon. Fabien is away and Henri is dead. Then I smell it … I throw back the thin sheet I’ve been sleeping under, rush downstairs, open the oven door and pull out the casserole. The lid clatters to the floor.
‘Ouch! Bollocks!’ I shove my burned hand under cold water. Smoke is pumping from the oven and the pot and the smell of burning fills the air. And then the smoke alarm goes off.
I wave a tea-towel vigorously with one hand, as Ralph barks and the alarm beeps at me, telling me what I already know. I’ve ruined dinner. It’s a disaster. My other hand is wrapped in a second, damp, tea-towel. I pull over a chair, climb onto it and wave againat the smoke alarm. Eventually it stops. I sigh and climb down, my whole body feeling like a lead weight.
I look at the clock on the wall, another of Fabien’sbrocantefinds. It’s nearly six. The pickers will be arriving on the terrace any minute. I told them to come for drinks at six, dinner at seven. And now I don’t have the makings of dinner at all.
‘Think, Del! Think!’ I say out loud, annoyed with myself.
Rhi comes into the kitchen. She’s clearly been out walking – there’s lavender in her hand – and her eyes are red.
‘You okay? You’re hurt!’ She rushes to get some ice from the freezer, puts it into the tea-towel and hands it back to me. ‘What happened?’
I nod to the dried-up burned offering on the side, creating an imprint of its own on the wooden surface.
‘You burned it?’ She looks confused, then changes tack. ‘Everyone can have an off day. There’s a lot to think about,’ she continues. ‘We’re all in shock still. It’s not just me.’
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to work out what I can rustle up to cook. But it’s like wading through mud in wellies.
‘What can I do to help?’ Rhi asks. I hear doors closing from the stable block and voices coming towards the house.
‘Um, give everyone a drink. I told them to meet up on the terrace at six. Make sure there’s wine andbeer …’ I say distractedly, still unsure of where to start with dinner.
‘It’ll be fine. We can do this together. As Henri would say,’ she says, and at the sound of voices arriving on the terrace she hurries out to serve drinks.
‘Blimey, something smells burned! Hope that’s not dinner!’ I hear a young Australian male voice. That must be Marco.
Followed by a shush.
‘He’s not wrong. That doesn’t smell good!’ says another, more English, voice. I screw up my eyes, wishing the tears would just come and fall. But they don’t.
I look at the mess in the casserole.
Rhi comes back in from offering drinks. I’m still staring into the pot.
I open the fridge for inspiration. It doesn’t come.
‘I’m starving.’ I hear Marco’s voice again. ‘Hoping for some proper French nosh.’
‘I’ve got some crisps in my backpack,’ someone else says. Maybe Maria, his partner.
I look back at the stew and wonder if I can rehydrate it with wine, maybe some tinned tomatoes. I try it and put on rice to steam. Rhi pours me a glass of wine and I drink it quickly. She refills it, and I drink that too.
‘Best top them up outside, so they don’t notice,’ I say, as I chip at thedaube. It’s almost beyond resuscitation. I stare into space, just glued to the spot. ‘Comeon, Henri. Trust my instinct – isn’t that what everyone keeps saying? I’m trying here!’
It’s gone eight by the time I put some overcooked stodgy rice and my attempt at rehydrating thedaubeon the table to everyone’s dismayed faces.
The young Australian frowns as I serve up plates of gloop. ‘We were promised home-cooked meals! Who made this? It looks cooked to death!’ he says, glaring at me.
‘Sorry, there’s been a—’ With that Rhi flees the table, a few glasses of wine and a bucketful of grief swilling around inside her.
‘Actually, I’ll just have rice,’ says Maria, glaring at her partner.
