Page 60 of Love In Provence
‘If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad …’ I march off towards the big gates, then across the road, looking both ways, the flash of the green cross of the pharmacy the only sign of life now. It’s hot. The ice cream is starting to melt.
I walk towards the familiar building that looks likesomeone I used to know but who has had fillers, a facelift, and changed their face completely. I reach the outside and stand there, trying to pick out features that used to be my old friends. Everything is … grey. It’s not warm and welcoming, like it used to be, more formal and standoffish. And, by the look of it, empty.
I take a deep breath and push open the door.
23
‘You didn’t make it to the supper club this evening,’ I say, frustrated.
Zacharie is sitting at a table with his sous-chef. The restaurant is empty and closed for the night. They each have a glass of cognac in front of them and are discussing menu ideas, with an iPad and a few ingredients in front of them.
He gives a smile that doesn’t meet his cold blue eyes. They are the same colour as Henri’s but without any warmth behind them.
‘Ah, the home cook! How was your supper club?’ He grins.
He has the ability to leave me feeling very small and insignificant, just like my ex-husband. I’m not going to let that happen to me again. I attempt to picture him naked, then blush. That’s a very bad idea. He maybe a bully, but he’s physically very fit and attractive. Instead, I remember he’s the son of one of my best friends. And he’s behaving badly.
‘You didn’t come, despite my invitation and you saying you wouldn’t miss it for the world. Wild horses wouldn’t keep you away.’
‘Ah, yes, but they did! There were too many of them! I’m sorry.’
His sous-chef sniggers.
‘And how was your little dinner party?’ He leans back in his chair and sips at the cognac in his balloon-shaped glass. There on the table is the envelope I pushed through the bistro’s door, unopened.
I won’t be intimidated by this man. I want to get him on side, get him to see why this place should go back to being Henri’s.
‘Good. Excellent, in fact. I wish you could have tried it all. I think your father would have loved it. I brought you a couple of desserts.’
‘Ah, from your kitchen in the barn?’
‘Actually, they were made in my house this morning.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. We have slightly different hygiene standards here.’
I look through to where the old kitchen used to be. Now shining chrome, spotless and sparse. No pans bubbling on the stove, or large ceramic pots with utensils to grab easily. The whole place has been stripped of character, including the upstairs, with an arrow formore seating under a row of very modern paintings. Probably worth a fortune but lost on me. I preferred the photographs that Henri had hanging there of fête days in the market square and the night markets.
‘As I say, we’re not doing peasant food here.’
I lift my head. ‘Your father would have loved it.’
‘Well, that says it all.’
My eyes flash as I remember the hurt in Henri’s eyes when he talked about his children. ‘Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but there are a lot of us around here whom your father helped and looked out for. We just want him to be remembered. For his bistro to serve the food he was known for. For it to be a hub for locals again.’
He gets up, walks towards me and stops, face to face. I can smell his hot skin, cognac and a mix of scents from the menu tonight. Many I don’t recognize. None that remind me of somewhere happy.
He looks back at me, challenging me, and suddenly I feel heat between us. Suddenly there is excitement, electricity in the space between our bodies. I can’t believe it’s attraction. But all of a sudden I feel on fire. He knows it and I know it. It’s an unpleasant mix of attraction and challenge.
‘I said,’ he says slowly, and I find myself watching his mouth, ‘non, merci.’ And laughs. The swirling attraction disappears, like the plug pulled out of a sink, leaving a nasty scum where it once was. Then he stepsaround me and walks towards the door, reaching for the handle and pulling it open.
His face is fixed. He does not look happy.
I look down at the brandy he was drinking and pick it up.
‘To Henri’s,’ I say, and down it. It burns, calming the fury that had built in that mad moment of seeming attraction. I put the glass down firmly on the table, pick up the desserts and walk towards the door with them. I am not going to let this young man mess with my emotions or my head. He is a game-player and I intend to beat him at his game.
‘Same time next week?’ I raise an eyebrow as I pass him at the door. I hold his gaze, which darkens. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ I say, holding my nerve. And without looking back, I walk as steadily as I can out onto the narrow lane and hear the door shut behind me. I lean against the stone wall, in the shadows, hands shaking, looking at where the olive tree once stood. I need Fabien. I need him to tell me this is worth fighting for. But I know it is. I look up at the space where Henri’s sign used to be.
