Page 2 of Love In Provence
‘I had so much to do, clearing up from last night at the riverside and getting today’s bouillabaisse on the go. It’s always busy when I cook Henri’s bouillabaisse.’ I kiss him. ‘Bonjour, good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ He kisses me back. ‘I just wish I could have said it to you in bed,’ he says quietly, with a grin.
‘Me too.’ I smile back. ‘Perhaps I could say good morning to you later.’
‘Ha!’ He laughs. ‘Or we’ll be asleep in our chairs like an old couple after a busy day.’
‘No. I’m going to cook for you, something special. Remind me what you look like! What was your name again?’
‘It’s a date!’ he says.
‘No deliveries to make this evening?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Désolé.’
‘It’s fine,’ I try to reassure him.
‘Nothing so far today. Sales are slow. If I sell anything, I’ll have to deliver it. Or get a house clearance. But so far nothing. I think people buy less when the weather is against them,’ he says, of the wind.
‘Good,’ I say, raising my voice above the whistle as the mistral tears down the street again, like a youngster racing their bike and forgetting where the brakes are. ‘I mean, not good that you’ve had no sales today, just good that I’ll see you tonight. We have enough from the bistro right now. And soon we’ll have the harvest and the lavender to sell.’ Stephanie sells it on the market stall, in bunches and lavender bags. If we had a still we could turn it into oil. That’s the plan, when we have the time and the money. ‘In the meantime,’ I smile in the face of the wind, ‘I get to see you!’
‘It comes to something when I need to book a date with my partner!’ He chuckles, then looks down atLouis. ‘Qu’est-ce qui se passé, Del? What’s happening here?’ he says, cocking his head to one side.
‘Papi Fabien!’ Louis lifts his head. ‘Papi!’ he shouts, a smile spreading across his face as he reaches out for Fabien, who takes him into his arms.
‘Oh, we all know who’s favourite around here.’ Stephanie smiles.
Fabien has slipped into the role of surrogate grandfather effortlessly, even though he’s nowhere near old enough: he’s ten years younger than me and ten years older than Stephanie. The age gap used to worry me but not so much, these days. Life is so busy there isn’t time to think about it. Our little stuck-together family seems to work and that makes my heart swell.
‘Okay! You going in the van with yourmaman?’ Fabien asks, and Louis nods. ‘You’re going to ride in the van?Au camion!’ Fabien shouts, and bounces the little boy up and down. ‘I came to see if you needed help with the tables and chairs, but I see you’ve already done it.’
‘All sorted,’ I say, touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘Butmerci!’ That’s Fabien. Always thinking of others. I sometimes worry we forget to make time for ourselves.
‘Well, in that case, if you’re all sorted here, I’ll help Stephanie to the van, with this little man.’ He kisses Louis’s little fingers, which are tightly wrapped around his own. This family may not be conventional but Ilove it. Fabien kisses me gently on the lips and I wish that I was still wrapped around his warm body in bed. But life doesn’t allow for lie-ins. The bistro is busier than ever, with holidaymakers and second-home owners arriving in the town and wanting tables. I’m getting in earlier to check my deliveries – things get missed off the orders from time to time. And Fabien finds it hard to say no to house clearances, which means thebrocanteis full. Almost too full for people to browse. But holidaymakers aren’t here for thebrocante. Sales will pick up again in the autumn, when it’s cooler, I’m sure, but for now, we’re dependent on what I bring in from the bistro. And that’s fine. Even if we’re like ships that pass in the night. We’ll make more time for us when the swifts start to leave, when the harvest is over, the visitors head home and the restaurants quieten down. I watch Fabien giving Louis a piggyback, Stephanie by his side, hurrying up the lane to the main road where the van is parked, his arm protectively around her.
I look up and down the small street, at the basket and bag shop opposite, whose proprietor has taken in everything that was hanging outside; the clothing shop, whose owner has hurried in her linen dresses on a rail, and the ceramics outlet. I grab a couple of little vases and a remaining tablecloth and turn back to the bistro where my bouillabaisse is still simmering.
‘Bonjour, Madame!’ I turn.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur.’ I raise a hand to the mayor as he passes, holding his briefcase tight to his chest as he battles towards themairiejust off the square.
‘Ah,le mistral, eh?’ He shakes his head. ‘Causing trouble where it’s not wanted!’
‘Exactement!’ I call back. ‘Let’s hope it leaves soon and takes its trouble-making with it.’
The mayor shrugs good-naturedly. ‘Le mistralalways leaves chaos in its wake.’ He hurries on.
I place my hand on the brass door handle into the bistro. But not this time, I think. Life here is sorted. I’m happy. We’re all happy. This time the mistral is just passing through. ‘Do your worst!’ I say, and push open the door, drawn back to the kitchen by the enticing smell of the rich broth on the stove, and to my happy place, this little bistro kitchen where everything feels safe. I go to step into the restaurant, when a sudden huge gust, bigger than before, is trying to lift me off my feet.
‘Whoa!’ I push against the door that’s trying to slam shut. ‘No, you don’t, Mistral!’
Behind me, there’s a loud slow crack. I whip my head around to see where it’s coming from, and as I do it’s followed by an almighty crash.
3
I drop the vases I’m clutching, which smash on the ground, scattering white china shards and lavender stems. My hand with the tablecloth flies to my mouth. The olive tree that has stood outside the bistro for years has cracked and fallen to where I was just standing with Fabien, Stephanie and Louis. I’m rooted to the spot. The dogs bark louder. There are shouts from neighbouring shop owners asking if everyone is okay.
‘Oui, oui,’ I finally manage. ‘Tout le monde va bien.’
