Page 41 of Love In Provence
‘Oh, it’s good of you to rate me like that, but I’m not sure I could cook Michelin-starred food. I haven’t had any formal training.’
He looks at me as the signwriter is finishing, wiping down not gold but grey writing. My eyes blur as I try to read the lettering. ‘But there must be some mistake.’ I look between him and the window. The sun is creeping up into the sky and bearing down on me, the back of my neck. I feel hot and light-headed.
‘Like I say, this place will become a Michelin-starred restaurant.’ He turns to look at me. ‘I don’t see a placefor you in that, do you?’ The familiar look of Henri yet with a cold expression is confusing me even further.
‘What? But— Hang on! I’m Henri’s business partner! You can’t just push me out!’
I stand and watch as the signwriter finishes with a final rub of the window, eradicating any trace that Henri’s was ever there. It now reads ‘l’expérience’.
‘You are partner of what was the business, Henri’s. Not the building. And from what I see, Henri’s doesn’t exist any more,’ he says, pulling his sunglasses back on and nodding at the signwriter.
I point at the sign with a shaking hand. ‘What? No. You can’t.’
‘Oui, je peux,’ he says. ‘It’s over and it’s time to go home, back to where you came from. Leave the cooking to the professionals.Au revoir.’ He turns away and starts to walk towards the car, parked opposite Fabien’sbrocanteat the end of the narrow street. Suddenly the Sunday bells from the church are ringing. The bells I have become used to, that somehow make me feel this is my home. I’m not going to be bullied out of it. I may be a migrant, but I’m part of this community. Henri made sure of that. Everyone was welcome. I won’t be pushed out. We all have a right to be here, however much Henri’s son would like to see this turned into a high-end, money-making, no-peasant-food-allowed place.
‘Well,’ I say, a red mist descending in front of my eyes, ‘we’ll see about that!’ I storm forward, practicallyknocking the signwriter off his feet. He tidies his belongings and makes to leave as I head straight for the kitchen.
‘L’expérience!!’ I say, furious, banging pots from their hooks onto the counter. The counter I have cleaned and polished every day since Henri handed over the keys, which now seem to be in Zacharie’s possession.
I pull large spoons from the pots beside the hob.
Outside I hear a shout. Someone calling Zacharie’s name. But I’m in my own world and everything outside it is just noise.
‘Hey!’ Zacharie is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, surprised and irritated. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Taking what’s mine!’ I say, standing in the middle of the kitchen with my hands on my hips. I feel as if my home is being repossessed so I’m grabbing what I can, while I can. ‘I may not own the building, but I am still a partner in this business, Henri’s! And these pots and pans belong to me, as much as they do to Henri, a part of the business.’
He sighs as if he’s dealing with a petulant schoolchild, which infuriates me even more, making me pull every pan I can off its hook and slamming them onto the functional kitchen work surface with a satisfying clatter and a bang.
‘I suggest you put everything back where it was and leave.’ He holds out his hands in front of him. ‘You’re clearly upset.’
I spin round and glare at him. ‘Upset?’ I snap. ‘I don’t think you have any idea how I’m feeling, but upset doesn’t quite cover it.’
My frustration moves up another notch and, with renewed vigour, I carry on, stripping the kitchen of the herbs and spices on the rack, the whisk Henri taught me to use, and the ladle he always served with. Henri’s son Zacharie might own the bricks and mortar and Henri’s personal items, but he’s not having the pans Henri cooked with, the whisk, the ladle, or the ancient bottle-opener he loved. No way! These are the pans where he made enough for the bistro and the riverside clearing project. These are Henri’s. The business’s.
‘If you want half, you’ll have to come and take them off me!’ I say, clasping the items to my chest.
He throws back his head and laughs. ‘And what do you plan to do? Set up a little home-cooking bistro somewhere else?’
I say nothing. I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do. But I’m not letting him have the tools that made Henri’s what it was.
‘Well, good luck,’ he says, standing aside as I attempt to walk to the door, holding the pans and other utensils in my arms.
I stop and try to say calmly, ‘It doesn’t have to be like this. Your father would hate it.’
He screws up his face. ‘What do you know about my father?’
‘I know the good he did here, the people he helped.’
‘Yes. He was so busy helping others he didn’t notice the family he had under his nose. My mother left him and he should have done more to stop it happening, to stop our family falling apart.’ I can see the anger flashing in his eyes.
‘You’re right. I know nothing of Henri before my time here. But—’
‘Don’t. Don’t tell me water has passed under the bridge or whatever you say in the UK. If I am erasing all trace of Henri’s maybe it’s because that’s what I want. I want to erase the memories of when I wanted my father there for me, and he wasn’t. He was there for everyone else, though. Good old Henri! Now, please, leave!’
I grapple for a large wooden spoon that’s slipping from my fingertips and catch it between my knees. Then, slowly and steadily, I waddle towards the door, trying to keep my dignity, which I may not have achieved, judging by the laughter of the signwriter, and the pointing of other shopkeepers who, as yet, have no idea what’s going on. I head for the end of the street, tears rolling down my face and my dignity dragging along behind me in the gutter.
16
