Page 64 of Love In Provence
This time I’m less nervous. In fact, we’re all in high spirits as we load the camper van with food and plates to take to thebrocante. But curiosity is scratching at mydoor. I want to find out what Zacharie is up to with the peaches he stole from under my nose.
‘Graham and I can walk down the alley and look at the menu, pretend we’re interested diners,’ says Keith, giving the cushions on a chair a final plump.
It shouldn’t matter really. We’re doing the dishes that Henri served, with added twists from everyone’s past.Patatas bravas, small cubed potatoes with a fiery tomato sauce to go with the melt-in-your-mouth beefdaubeand buttery green beans. Roasted artichokes for the vegetarians. For starters there is duckrillette, made locally, soft like pâté, with wine and thyme, served with bread and cornichons, or baked Camembert, drizzled with honey and scattered with rosemary and lavender.
Everything is in its place. I wait anxiously for Keith and Graham’s return, polishing the cutlery that has already been polished to within an inch of its life, and glasses that shine in the hot afternoon sun.
Finally, they’re back, walking hand in hand across the courtyard, heads down.
‘Well?’ I stand up to meet them. Neither of them is smiling.
‘He’s doing a tasting menu,’ says Graham, slowly.
‘With drinks included. A special offer he’s calling it!’ Keith is clenching his fists angrily.
‘What?’ Rhi stands and joins us.
‘He’s doing what?’ I’m trying to process what’s going on.
‘He’s doing a special evening, a tasting menu of his experimental dishes. He’s got the local press there and bloggers. He clearly wants to make sure no one sees what we’re doing here this evening.’
‘Phfff!’ is all I can think of saying.
‘And the peaches?’
‘Peach bellinis with a twist for an aperitif,’ Graham confirms. ‘And then …’
‘A trio of peach desserts, including peachtarte Tatin, with gold leaf.’
I take a deep breath. ‘He’s stolen our idea. He must have heard me talking with Jen.’
Keith and Graham tut. The mood has nose-dived.
Samuel drops his head. ‘Gold leaf?Non, justnon! That isn’t a meal, that’s a jewellery store!’
I lift my head. ‘He may have stolen my idea, but that suggests our ideas are good and he should be working with me. Now, let’s show him what the people around here really want. We have plenty on offer. Let’s write out a menu and pin it up outside,’ I say. ‘Keith, do you have any kind of board we could use?’
‘Just the thing.’ He goes into the warehouse and comes out with an artist’s easel and a gold frame.
‘Great,’ I say, and leave him to write out the menu for the supper club while the rest of us carry on getting ready for the evening, with a little less excitement andmore nerves than earlier. I keep checking my phone, but there’s no word from Fabien, and I’m thinking he won’t make it now.
At seven o’clock the church bell rings to let us know that it’s the end of the day. The sun is dipping in the sky, and I hear people walking down the street.
‘Here they come,’ I say. ‘People know we’re open tonight. You did lots of canvassing in the market. Well done,’ I say to the others. ‘And giving out the samosas and lavender cookies at the night market yesterday was a great idea!’
The voices get closer and I smile at the gate, ready to welcome people to our second pop-up night. The candles are lit and we’re playing a scratchy but atmospheric tune. Thedaubesmells amazing and tastes just as it should. I’m relaxing by the second.
The voices are by the gate. I smile to welcome them, but they walk on and are now passing the gate.
I frown, then shrug. We stand and wait.
But no one comes.
From the far end of the alley opposite, I can hear voices, welcoming and greeting each other, convivial conversation and corks popping. There is music too, some sort of modern jazz, being played by a cellist if I’m not mistaken.
Finally, by ten past eight, with a pot ofdaubeon the stove and the candles burning brightly on the emptytables, I pull off my apron and march out of the gates towards the top of the alleyway. Then, as if drawn by the strange music and smells, I walk down it and stand beside where the olive tree once was. Sitting outside under the awning, in front of the newly painted l’expérience window sign, are the mayor … and Carine. And the shop owner from across the road, and Renard the greengrocer! It’s full! Of locals! My locals! People who supported me and Henri! What are they all doing here?
‘Carine!’ I say, and she turns.
