‘Well, this looks wonderful,’ she says. ‘Bonjour, Del.’ She kisses me, then turns to Fabien. ‘Bonjour, chéri.’ She kisses his cheeks with her bright red lipstick. He slips his arm around her waist and kisses her back.
‘Here, I got a glass ready,’ he says as she sits down, and I realize Carine and Fabien must be an item. Which is fine! They’re the right age for each other. They make a lovely couple. Of course they do. Someone in their late twenties or even early thirties isn’t going to look twice at me, ten years older. I hope she doesn’t think I’m some desperate, newly single, practically middle-aged woman preying on her man. He’s handsome, with those amazing green eyes, and he has a way of making you feel good about yourself. He’s a lovely man, and Carine is a lucky lady. Thank goodness love and happiness are still out there for some, even if it’s not what I want right now. In fact, a man is the very last thing I want in my life. Now I can relax, knowing that Fabien is with Carine and we can be friends.
Carine lights a cigarette and blows the smoke into the sky. Fabien tuts.
‘I know, I know,’ she says, wafting away the smoke. ‘I keep promising him I’ll give up!’ she tells me. Then, with her free hand, she reaches for a tuile. ‘What are these?’
‘Oh, just something I made … I haven’t cooked in years …’ I hope she won’t think I was making a play for her boyfriend with them.
‘A thank-you present to me, for a book I gave her and for helping her settle in,’ Fabien fills in.
‘To prove,’ I say boldly, ‘that I’m here to live and be part of life here.’
‘Of course!’ He grins.
‘And to say thank you for driving my furniture to the house.’ I put the situation on a firm business footing and feel much better.
‘Fabien is very kind,’ she says, and takes a bite of the biscuit. ‘Hmm, these are good,’ she says. ‘Just the right balance of lavender.’ She confirms what Fabien said.
‘You should have a stall at the market. Sell lavender bakes, biscuits, macarons. They even make nougat with lavender.’ Fabien tops up our glasses. ‘Use recipes from the book!’
‘Yes!’ Carine exclaims. ‘That’s a brilliant idea! Biscuits and sweet treats from Le Petit Mas de la Lavande!’
My heart is pounding with excitement. ‘Really? Do you think I could?’
‘Of course!’ they say.
‘Do you have any experience?’ Carine asks.
‘Well, I used to work in a shop. A big shop.’ My confidence is about to leave me. I may know about shops, but a market stall, selling bakes I’ve made? ‘I’m not sure …’ I’m worried that my French isn’t good enough – or my baking for that matter.
Carine claps her hands gleefully. ‘I will speak to Monsieur le maire for you. His office will deal with everything. I will tell him you are a friend of mine! It won’t be a problem. I will organize a stall for you for next Monday,’ she says. ‘It is sorted!’
Fabien looks at Carine with a raised eyebrow. I’m not sure what his expression means.
‘But … why would you do that for me?’ She barely knows me.
She seems to understand. ‘I like you. I like your …’ she searches for the word ‘… your bravery. You are making a life for yourself. Everyone needs a helping hand. I think you will take it,’ she says. ‘Not everyone wants to come here and make a life. They want a life without change.’ I wonder if she’s referring to the people she showed around Le Petit Mas. ‘I see it all the time. And when it’s not how they want it, they leave. You want to stay,’ she blows smoke into the air, ‘and I’m happy to help.’
‘And I will find you a stall,’ says Fabien.
Carine and Fabien are looking at me. I’m not sure if it’s the wine, or the sunshine, or just that I have no other ideas as to how I’m going to make a living. Or maybe I feel I still have something to prove to Fabien that makes me say, ‘In that case, I’d love to! If you think I can.’
‘I think you can,’ says Fabien. I feel he’s challenging me, and I’m determined to show him I can do it. It will bring me in a bit of cash each week to live on and I can use the rest of the lawnmower money for the first mortgage repayment next month. In the meantime, I’ll work out how to turn my house into a chambre d’hôte.
‘The place by the river for the homeless people …’ I say.
‘The art installation?’ Carine laughs, then explains to Fabien that that was what I’d thought it was.
‘What about it?’ Fabien takes another tuile.
‘Is there ever any trouble there?’ I ask carefully.
Fabien shakes his head. ‘Only the trouble others make for those who live there.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Some people don’t want them there. But they do no harm to anyone. They don’t have a place to call their own, and they need somewhere to rest and sit. It’s a human right.’
‘The blue settee had been pushed into the river this afternoon when I walked past. They were fishing it out.’
‘The settee? Tsk!’ He shakes his head. ‘I will find a replacement.’
‘You gave them the settee?’
He nods. ‘I find pieces and take them over. It’s a small help. But others don’t like it and try to put a stop to it.’
‘It is a small gesture to help keep everyone in our town happy. We all live together happily … well, most of us,’ says Carine.
‘I’ll find something and take it over to the river in a bit. The blue one will take ages to dry.’
‘Who would have done that?’ I ask.
Fabien shrugs. ‘People who don’t want homelessness on their doorstep. People who think life here in Provence is … photo-perfect.’
‘Picture-perfect?’
‘Yes!’ He smiles. ‘It may be beautiful here, but life is just like it is anywhere else. You can’t run from the problems. They are all around.’
‘Everywhere,’ I gently correct him.
‘Exactement!’ he says.
After I’ve said goodbye to Carine and Fabien, I stroll back towards the slowly setting orange sun and the riverbank. The blue settee is there, but no one is around. There on the verge is my plate, clean, washed in the river, and a note on a roughly torn piece of paper, held down by a stone: Merci.
I pick up the plate and head for my home, where I belong. Now all I have to do is bake the tuiles again for my stall next Monday. I’m in business! How hard can it be? I used to run a department in a big shop. Selling my own bakes is a long way from where I used to be. Is any French person going to buy lavender biscuits from an Englishwoman?
TEN
I spend the next week trying to decipher the recipes in the book and testing them, a new one every day. Each morning I get up and turn the next page in the book, as if I’m opening a window in an advent calendar. It’s the reason I need to get out of bed, and with every recipe I feel as if Mum is in the kitchen with me.
On Tuesday I make shortbread. It’s crumbly and buttery, just as it should be, and I think I’ve conquered the oven. On Wednesday, I attempt macarons, which come out of the oven a bit wonky. Thursday is a chocolate gateau with lavender, and on Friday, I make apricot jam, with apricots from the greengrocer in town and lavender from the hedge in the garden, and use some to fill a sponge cake. Each day I walk down the river path with my bake and deliver it to Fabien at the brocante, where Carine joins us for coffee. We all agree the macarons need more practice. The chocolate gateau is delicious, rich, moist and floral, but too crisp on one edge: I may need to turn the next around during cooking. The brilliant orange jam could be sold in jars to display its bright colour, like the sun, with the flecks of lavender … Provence in a jar.