Page 21 of Love In Provence
‘It’s fine,’ says Maria, at the terrace doors to the kitchen.
‘Come in, it’s hot out there,’ I say. ‘Do you want some water?’
She steps into the cool of the kitchen.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ She holds up a hand, but I’m on automatic pilot and don’t register her response.
‘Help yourself,’ I say, filling a jug, popping in some ice cubes from the freezer, grabbing a glass and placing it on the table in front of her. She pours some water, probably out of politeness. I have no idea why I didn’t take no for an answer. Clearly I think I know better than everyone else. Maybe it’s time I learn to stop interfering in other people’s lives.
‘I just came to see if I could borrow an adaptor. I haven’t brought a French one with me. Well, I thought I had but Marco has the only one we own. I’ll get one in town, but if you have one maybe I could borrow it for now?’
‘Yes, of course.’ I step aside, pull open a drawer and see her eyes drawn to the debris on the work surface where I’ve been trying to recreate my usual weekday menu.
‘You’re cooking?’ She scans the work surface, which is scattered with flour. ‘What are you making?’ she says.
‘It’s not going to plan. Not like it usually does.’ I look down at the sorry mess and press my palm hard onto the empty notebook. If only I can remember the recipes and write them down, so this brain fog clears. It’s like I have stage fright of some sort. Not that I’ve ever been one for the limelight. I feel completely paralysed when I get out a pan to begin to cook. It’s usually my favourite time of day when I gather my ingredients from the market or other suppliers in town, shut myself into the kitchen at the bistro and make a start. I step into my happy place. But now …
‘I don’t know what’s going on. I cook this every week!’ We stare at the shopping on the work surface. ‘I just don’t know where to start. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to do it. Which is stupid. How can you just forget what is second nature to you? Perhaps I should bring Stephanie up to cook for you all,’ I say. ‘But she has enough on her plate. She’s got a small unit in town to bake from. I should be helping her, really.’ I’m rambling. ‘Especially as she has the two little ones, and with little Louis missing Fabien so much …’ I straighten and gaze at Maria, who is standing with the adaptor in her hand.
My mind is still whirring. I can’t ask Carine to help, even though I know she’d do anything for me. She barely eats let alone cooks. I let out a long sigh.
‘Could I help?’ Maria says slowly. ‘I cook at home. A lot. For my friends.’
My head is still swimming. I stare at her, as if I’m walking the route I’ve always walked but have lost my bearings. To be honest, I’m scared. I have no idea what’s happening to me.
She steps in beside me, picking a knife from my hand that I’m turning over and over. I can’t help but feel grateful.
‘I can make something from this, if you want.’ She looks at the ingredients, the white onions, scented tomatoes and plump peppers.
I nod slowly. ‘Enough for all of us?’ I’m concerned. It’s like she’s thrown me a lifeline but I want to check it’ll bear my weight.
‘Plenty, with leftovers.’ She rolls up her sleeves and washes her hands.
Ralph looks up from where he’s been lying by the door, clearly missing Fabien. He has found his way back to my bedroom at night. That hasn’t happened since Fabien and I first got together and he moved in here.
‘You know, if you don’t mind me saying …’ she says, hesitating over chopping an onion.
‘Go on.’ I pour myself a glass of water, my hand still shaking slightly.
‘Grief can come out in different ways.’
I sip the water. Is that what this is? Grief for Henri?But if it is, that means he’s really gone – and I still can’t believe it. I pull out a chair at the table and sit down, feeling as if I’m having an out-of-body experience as I watch and allow someone, a virtual stranger, to make themselves at home in my kitchen.
‘If you don’t want to talk about him, it’s fine, just say. Marco says I always ask too many questions, talk to strangers too much.’ She shrugs. ‘Maybe I do. I can be quiet if you’d prefer.’
‘No, it’s fine.’ I smile at the lovely young woman’s infectious and enthusiastic interest. ‘I’m happy to talk,’ I say, pouring more water.
‘Were you and Henri related?’ she asks, chopping fast.
I shake my head. ‘No. Although it feels like we were. He’s – he was,’ I correct myself although it feels so strange, ‘a dear friend. He helped me when I first came to live here. He was my first customer when I started baking with lavender. He helped Stephanie too, when she was a young single mum. In fact, Henri had a knack of being there and helping when you needed him.’
‘Looks like you do the same,’ she says.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ I stop and think about Fabien. Maybe I do. Maybe I spend too much time putting others first and forgetting the most important ones. ‘Wow!’ I say, as a punch of powerful spices fills the kitchen.
‘Oh, it’s my spice box, mydabba. My grandmothergave it to me. I take it everywhere,’ she says, holding it up.
‘It smells amazing.’
