Page 19 of Love In Provence
‘All fine. Stephanie is sad, but she’s doing okay.’
‘Give them all a kiss from me. Say Papi loves them,’ he says.
Then I hear, ‘Grandpère,’ and laughter in the background.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing, just banter,’ he says, with a tiny edge in his voice.
‘Is he calling you “Grandpère”?’
‘It’s just a joke, Del. Look, I’ll call you later, when it’s quieter.’
I can barely hear him but tell him that’s fine and hang up.
I imagine the teasing now, calling him ‘Grandpère’. What do his friends think of him giving up music towork in abrocanteand be a grandfather? More to the point, what does Fabien think of it now he’s back with the band? I shut my eyes to try to nap, but all I can think of is the age gap between us. It seems to be widening with every day he’s away.
At dinner that evening, on the terrace, the sun is setting over the lavender fields that slope away from the house. Everyone is seated at the table, glowing after a day in the sun, showered and refreshed. Except Marco, who just has glowing cheeks.
I serve up the bouillabaisse to appreciative murmurs.
‘This is more like it!’ Marco grins and rubs his hands together. Maria looks embarrassed again, but he’s not wrong and I take it as a sort of compliment.
‘What is this?’ asks Ed eagerly, his enthusiasm surprising me.
‘It’s bouillabaisse. I make it in the bistro. Nearly every week. It has, erm …’ I try to recall the ingredients in the order that I use them. I’m imagining myself back in the bistro kitchen, back to the day the olive tree fell into the window when I was cooking it. But my mind goes blank. Is this what they mean by brain fog? Is this the peri-menopausal thing that Carine suggested I get some supplements for?
‘It’s fish stew,’ cuts in Rhi, and I smile gratefully at her.
I watch Ed write something on his phone, then leanover the bowl and inhale it, as if it were a fine wine. Then he opens his eyes and smiles. We’re all watching him.
‘Sorry … It’s just it smells amazing! I’m thinking fennel and saffron … and a bit of orange?’
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘That’s it! And something else. But I can’t remember …’ The brain fog descends again.
‘So, how about we get to know each other?’ I say, as I dip my spoon into the bouillabaisse and lift it to my mouth. Just for a moment I’m back to when I first ate this at the bistro, when I thought life around me had been turned on its head and I’d done a totally mad thing by staying here. And that centred me, sitting at the table outside the bistro, having just started to make new friends in Henri and Carine and, of course, meeting Fabien. It was the start of a journey, a new chapter. I take a mouthful of seafood and garlicky rouille, then look around the table. The diners are a couple of mouthfuls in and all look around waiting for someone to start. I swallow, and smile.
‘As you know, I’m Del,’ I tell them. ‘Moved to France three and a half years ago. My husband, now ex, went back to the UK and I stayed here. I started making lavender bakes from a recipe book I found, sold them at the market and to restaurants in the town. Stephanie does that now and I run Henri’s bistro in town.’ This time I manage to say his name without a crack in my voice. Progress, I think. Thank you, bouillabaisse. Thank you, Henri.
‘And Stephanie is your daughter?’ Keith asks, leaning over his bowl, his ears sticking out like two little wing-nuts, keeping his glasses on. There is kindness in his voice, which I like.
‘She’s … It’s complicated. But, yes, she’s practically family. As are her husband and the two children. My partner Fabien is away at the moment. And you’ve met Rhi, one of my closest friends.’ I nod to her. ‘She’s one of the few friends who believed in me when I decided to stay on in this town. Others thought I was making a crazy decision.’ I smile at her and we take a moment to enjoy the memory.
Then there’s a lull.
Some are mopping up the juices of the bouillabaisse with chunks of bread, loaded with rouille, and taking sips of wine, poured from the jugs of red and rosé on the table.
‘I’m Maria.’ I can tell she wants to be brave and make others feel comfortable. ‘Marco and I are travelling, trying to decide where to settle. We’re looking at our options. We’re from Australia. Marco’s Australian through and through, from the Gold Coast. Me, I’m a bit more complicated. Adopted in the UK, my birth mother was possibly a Traveller. My adoptive father was Greek, my mother of Indian heritage, and we moved to Australia when I was eleven.’
‘They don’t need our family history. Next you’ll be telling them how many times a day I go to the dunny!’Marco is laughing, and everyone else laughs with him. He’s certainly a character, I think, as he leans into Maria, giving her a playful nudge. She smiles away her initially hurt expression, as he reaches across her for more bread to soak up the juices in his bowl. He puts the bread into his mouth, chews, swallows and grins. ‘This is good!’ he says, pointing to his bowl. ‘Is there any more?’
I smile. ‘Merci– I mean, thank you. It’s one of Henri’s specialities.’ I look at Rhi and give her a little smile, which she returns. That’s good, I think. It’s good to talk about him. I reach to take Marco’s bowl and ladle in some bouillabaisse. ‘Anyone else?’ More bowls are offered up.
‘Henri taught me all his recipes. Never wrote anything down. All done on instinct, taste, touch.’ Just like when I met Fabien. It was instinct that brought us together. ‘It’s how we live around here, following our hearts.’ The words catch in my throat and I cough. ‘Who’s next?’ I ask, handing over another bowl and encouraging people to fill their glasses.
‘We’re Graham and Keith,’ says Keith, the shorter, more rotund of the two, with the sticking-out ears and glasses. ‘We’ve decided to tour Europe. Interrail. We’ve been together for twenty-one years.’ We all say things like ‘brilliant’ and ‘congratulations’. They smile, Keith a little more widely than Graham.
‘How long are you planning on travelling for?’ asksMarco. ‘I mean, presumably it’s like a holiday for you guys.’
