Page 62 of Love In Provence
‘Au revoir, chérie,’ he says, and I wish the words weren’t ringing in my ears as the phone goes dead.
Days pass. Fabien and I swap text messages but don’t really speak. I don’t know how to start the conversation. Somehow the gap between us has widened. All I can do is get ready for Friday night, the supper club, and make sure it’s as good as last week’s. It’s the only thing I can do to get things back to how they were. I’ll put things right with Fabien when he’s home.
I need to focus on cooking. I need to find me again. How can I expect Fabien to come home to me if I’ve lost myself?
I pull out the pan in which Henri always cooked thedaube. It’s early morning and the mist has lifted. Ed, Maria, Graham, Keith, Rhi, Jen and Samuel, with a different companion but one I recognize, are heading out into the field with secateurs and sun hats. There is just a week left of the harvest. Two-thirds of the field is cut. This is the final section.
I put the pan on the hob and look at the beef and vegetables I’ve brought back from the town. I picture myself at thebrocante, with all the happy faces around me. This is what food does: it makes people happy, makes them feel at home. And that’s how I feel in mykitchen, imagining Henri here, Fabien too, Stephanie, JB and the children. With that, I pick up Henri’s old wooden spoon, take a deep breath and look at the pan. The fog starts to descend again but I push it away with images of the supper club, the ‘sold’ stickers on the furniture, and I know I have to keep going. I turn on the flame and begin to cook. I brown the chunks of beef and smoky pancetta in bubbling butter and oil, set them aside, then soften the onion, carrots, leeks and celery. I add garlic, bay leaves from the garden, tomato purée and stock. I pour in the wine, a whole bottle, loving the sound it makes as it sizzles. There’s parsley to go in and a drop of Henri’s favourite brandy, the smell filling my nostrils and making my mouth water, giving me the nod that I’m heading in the right direction. I season the dish, and sprinkle over the dried lavender. As soon as the familiar aroma reaches my nose, I’m back in the zone and I couldn’t feel happier.
I add the meat to the pan and put it into the oven. Then I fry off the shallots and mushrooms in more butter. I’m nearing the end of the process and I know I’ve finally got back in the saddle. I put the shallots and mushrooms to one side to add later, with a little slaked cornflour, and chop more parsley to garnish. Then I stand back and regard the work surface,mise en place. I hear Henri’s voice,Everything in its place … as it shouldbe, and my heart swells with joy. Life is starting to return to normal.
‘So, that’s the menu. Are we all agreed?’ I say, leaning back in my chair and glancing at the empty plates around the table, wiped clean with baguette. A huge piece of me is back. ‘I’m going to cook Henri’s beefdaube,’ I say nervously, hoping I don’t freeze again and it tastes like thedaubeI’ve just served, with a hint of lavender among the otherherbes de Provence. An aromatic mix of thyme, parsley and rosemary. The taste of home. Here. Where I want to stay. A smile pulls at my lips. I intend to fight to do that every step of the way, and feel the fire burning inside me, for me, Fabien, Stephanie, JB and the boys, for our home together.
‘Agreed,’ they all say, including Samuel, who confirms that Henri’sdaubeis a firm favourite with the locals, and we start to talk about all our other dishes for the menu.
We’re doing Maria’s spiced potatoes and Jen is making a starter of Spanish tapas while Ed’s on desserts. Once again a fusion of flavours, heritages, backgrounds and stories are coming to the table … with a sprinkling of lavender. Samuel is helping Jen with the tapas. Keith is keeping us fuelled with more homemade cakes and biscuits to go with our coffee.
‘Here’s to Friday-night supper club!’
‘I remember when I first went to Spain,’ says Jen, ‘I didn’t even know what tapas was! It was all such an adventure. I loved it. But that was then,’ she says. ‘I’ve come a long way from those days.’
‘And where do you want to go?’ Graham asks.
It seems she’s never really thought about it. ‘I don’t know. That’s the problem. I’ve just kept travelling, thinking that if I could keep planning a route, I’d be able to avoid the hurt,’ she says, and her eyes fill with tears. Rhi places a hand on hers. ‘I can’t go back. Dan, my first husband, has moved on. I just have to live with losing him. It was my silly mistake. I should’ve put the effort into being with him, instead of looking elsewhere for my happiness.’
I feel all my senses standing to attention. I just hope there’s still time for Fabien and me to remember what we have.
‘I suppose we have to learn to find a way to live with sadness,’ she says, looking at Rhi.
‘And feel lucky we loved them that much.’ Rhi’s voice cracks.
Come Friday morning, we gather on the terrace overlooking the lavender fields for a trip to the town to visit the grocer and then thebrocanteto set up later this afternoon when the food is prepared.
‘Any news from Marco?’ I hear Graham ask Maria. She shakes her head. He puts his arm around her andsqueezes her to him. No words, just a gesture of support and she seems to appreciate it.
‘He’s probably waxing his windsurfer as we speak,’ she says.
Everyone sighs.
‘We had good times. He was fun. He knew who he was, what he liked, what he didn’t like, and I liked that in him at the time. But now we may have come to the end of our journey together. I don’t hate him. I just think I lost me.’
‘Well, I suggest you sharpen your knife and make the best dish you can. You know what they say about revenge,’ Keith says.
‘A dish best served cold!’ everyone choruses, then laughs, like the sun breaking through and the mist lifting over the lavender field.
‘A few of us will stay behind and carry on in the field and another couple will go to the shops,’ says Ed, taking control.
‘I’m happy to stay and harvest,’ says Samuel, in his deep, rich voice.
‘If that’s okay,’ Ed adds, turning to me.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘Right, let’s make a list,’ he says.
Perhaps waiting and wondering if Fabien will make it home tonight won’t be so hard after all. I can’t wait to show him what we’ve done with thebrocante.
We walk past the riverside clearing in the fresh air. Later in the day it will be hot. It’s quiet. I pick up the debris of beer cans and other detritus and shove it into my bag to put in a bin when I find one.
