I turn to the kitchen, and smell it before I see it. I run to the oven and fling open the door. The smoke makes me cough. Ruined. I could cry! The tuiles are burned in one corner of the baking sheet and overcooked in another. I toss the tin on to the work surface with a clatter. I look at the flour, the butter and the few eggs I have left. I take a deep breath, the scent of the lavender I picked earlier cleansing the smell of my disaster.
Ralph is standing in the kitchen. ‘There’s only one thing I can do, boy!’ He pants at me. ‘Start again!’ This time I’d better get it right or my mission to cook my way through the book will be over before it’s begun. I have to get it right …
By the time I pull the third attempt, perfect golden tuiles this time, from the oven, made with the last of my ingredients, I haven’t taken my eye off them for a second. I’m hot and tired. But I’ve made biscuits with lavender. Tuiles! I lift one from the baking sheet and snap it in half. And then I can smell the lavender. I bite into it. It melts in my mouth and the lavender is floral, subtle. But the little I used was just right. I’m quite proud of them – no, I’m really proud.
I put them on a plate, one of the patterned ones I bought from Fabien at the brocante. Then I split them between two plates to show off the lovely pattern and even put a sprig of lavender across them for decoration. Now I need to deliver them.
NINE
I call Ralph into the shade of the kitchen and close the doors, telling him to be good. Then, in the afternoon sunshine, the plates in my hands, I walk towards the riverbank and the path into town. It’s so important that I do this: I need to feel I’m living here, not just existing.
As I walk towards the clearing with the beautiful settee I remember Carine telling me it was a place for the homeless and suddenly understand how lucky I am. I have a roof over my head. The rug can be pulled out from under any of us at any time. I think of Lou and Rhi, having to rebuild their lives when they were left on their own. As for me, well, I’ve chosen to be here. But I couldn’t have stayed with Ollie, not when I was so unhappy.
I hear a commotion at the clearing before I get to it.
Two men and a young woman are standing in the river, trousers rolled up to their knees. The dogs, off the lead, are barking, and just for a moment I feel a spike of panic.
A small group on the side of the river is calling to someone and I’m trying to make out what they’re saying. Is someone in trouble? Instead of turning back, which might have been advisable, I quicken my pace. I have first-aid training from working at the store: maybe I can help. As I near the group they’re lifting something out of the water. My heart lurches. It’s the blue settee with the gold legs. It’s dripping wet and heavy by the look of it. Between them, they move it out of the river and across the path, where it sits, sodden. Then they help each other on to dry land. There is laughter and the dogs settle as their owners return to them.
I skirt around the settee and the group standing around it. ‘Pardon, Madame,’ says a long-haired older man with a beard. And the others join in, making room for me to pass. I thank them and glance at the two plates of biscuits I’m carrying. Far too many for one person. I turn to the older man and offer him the plate. He looks at me, then at the tuiles with the sprig of lavender.
‘Merci,’ he says, and takes one.
‘Non,’ I say. ‘Pour tout le monde.’
He’s surprised, and thanks me again. Then he hands the plate around to the small community.
‘Merci,’ he says again, the group echoing him.
I find Fabien on his knees in the brocante, cleaning an old bed frame.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. Even the furniture in this place gets a second chance at life.
‘It will be,’ he says, standing up, and suddenly I’m feeling ridiculous, coming here with a plate of biscuits.
He kisses me on both cheeks, then a third kiss on the first cheek. My stomach flutters, as if the butterflies Ralph was chasing have flown right through me. ‘How are you?’ he asks, wiping his hands.
‘Très bien,’ I say, and he smiles. ‘Et vous?’
‘Tu. We are friends, non?’
‘Oui,’ I say, suddenly infuriatingly shy. He looks at the plate and I realize I’m going to have to explain myself. ‘Um, I made you these.’ I hold out the plate, anxious now. I’ve made biscuits for a Frenchman: he may think they’re awful. ‘I wanted to thank you for bringing the furniture and the book,’ I say quickly. I don’t want him to think I make a habit of turning up with baked goods. But I do want to prove to him I’m here to stay, not another blow-in, in today and out tomorrow.
He pushes back the hair from his face. ‘It was my pleasure. But so are these.’ He takes the plate. ‘I will make some coffee,’ he says.
I love it here. There are so many things I’d love to buy that would look beautiful in the house.
Outside, in the courtyard, he puts down the biscuits on a tarnished old wrought-iron table, but no coffee. ‘I thought maybe an aperitif instead,’ he says, and produces a bottle of rosé wine, the sun shining through it as it lowers in the sky. ‘To my new friend from Britain!’ he says, and I hope he means it.
‘Lovely,’ I say, a little confused. On the one hand he’s being friendly, but on the other he’s highlighting the differences between us.
‘Fabien, how does it feel, having people move into the town, buying up the old houses? Do the local people resent it?’
He shrugs, holding two glasses. ‘It depends. Some people come here to be part of our community. Others, well, they don’t want that. Here we welcome everybody who wants to live as part of our town and community.’ He smiles and I smile back, because that’s exactly what I want to do.
He puts down two elegant glasses and invites me to sit on a chair that matches the table. ‘Op,’ he says, raising a finger. He goes back inside for a third glass and puts it on the table. Then he takes a corkscrew from the back pocket of his jeans and pulls the cork, which releases with a pleasurable pop. As he pours the cold pink liquid into the glasses, the glugs seem such a joyous sound. He hands me a glass, then holds out the plate of biscuits to me. I take one, as does he. He raises his glass to me, then takes a bite of the biscuit and a sip of wine. I hold my breath. I liked my lavender tuiles, but that was the first time I’d ever eaten them.
He looks at me, his eyes teasing, then breaks into a smile. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. ‘These are really good.’ He has another bite. ‘You have used just the right amount of lavender. Too much and it overpowers. Lavender was used as a herb, like rosemary, a flavouring in food for a long time, but sadly seems to be dying out. Maybe people used too much and went off it. They see it as a flower nowadays, not as a herb. These are perfect.’
I’m feeling happier than I have in a long time. I’m sitting here in the sunshine, enjoying a glass of rosé, and have taken a tiny step to show I want to be part of this community. I look at Fabien, and feel a tiny fizz of excitement about my new life in France and what the future may hold.
Just then Fabien calls to someone and raises a hand. It’s Carine. I wave too. She crosses the road and comes into the courtyard and the shade of the olive tree where we’re sitting.