Daniel Douglas de Beers stood in the kitchen at La Maison du Paradis and studied his workspace for the coming days. More familiar with the clinical surroundings of glass and chrome at his own establishment, the rustic environment reminded him of the pages of a rural French cookery book where geese gobbled over a stable door and warm, freshly baked baguettes lay in a hand-woven reed basket, beside a wood-burning stove.
In this kitchen, a sturdy farmhouse table took centre stage. Daniel imagined it as a gathering place over the years where family and friends shared the simple pleasure of food harvested from the walled vegetable garden. La Maison du Paradis was a far cry from the tourist-filled Cotswolds, where his restaurant was a magnet for rich city folk, who sped through country lanes in their Porsches and Ferraris. Gastronomy came alive in his honey-hued house, and the charismatic chef charmed everyone who entered the gates. Daniel was proud that in his formative years, he’d developed his expertise in renowned establishments worldwide, including The Ritz in London and Sandy Lane in Barbados.
As he admired the homely French kitchen and ran his fingers over a butcher’s block resting on a cool granite surface, Daniel thought of all the places he’d travelled to. When his marriage broke down, to avoid an angry wife and her lawyers, he’d spent a year at Tokyo’s prestigious Nihonryori Ryugin, which enabled him to include Eastern flavours to the eclectic range of global cuisine that he now served at Dining at Daniel De Beers.
Daniel cocked his head to one side and smiled as he remembered that his time in Toyko had diluted press interest when, to his horror, his wife sold her story. But to his surprise, on his return, the bad-boy reputation that she’d exploited, only enhanced his career.
Daniel began to pace the kitchen. It was a carefully thought-out, durable workspace, and he liked the style, nodding approval. It would function well.
His staff had questioned why he would leave his business for a week. His answer had been that he was treating it as a holiday, combined with his desire to give back to the industry by sharing his knowledge. In truth, Daniel didn’t give a toss for the wealthy, fee-paying students. He’d jumped at the opportunity to get his hands on the generous sum that Waltho offered, for he was sorely in need of funds to pay off a gambling debt. Daniel sighed as he ran his fingers over hand-painted ceramic tiles in soft, muted colours. One day he would stop. His gambling habit had been born in a pub, where the young Danny Beers had fought hard to earn enough to work his way from pot-washing to manipulating his way into famous kitchens. Learning everything he could about cooking, wins on the tables had supplemented his meagre income.
Ah, but the wins are few and far between these days, Daniel thought as he stared at gleaming copper pots and pans hooked on an overhead rack.
Reaching up to pluck a leaf from a bunch of herbs hanging from the ceiling, he tasted tangy thyme and, despite the uncomplicated surroundings, suddenly felt at home in this kitchen. It might not have the modern equipment expected of a Michelin-starred chef, but it was the perfect environment to guide a group through some of the secrets of his culinary repertoire.
He’d come a long way from the tenements of Glasgow, where he’d been raised. Never in his wildest dreams had Daniel imagined ending up where he was. Changing his name and eradicating his past had helped the chef reinvent himself, and he was proud of all he’d achieved. But disowning his inebriated parents had come at a cost. Devoid of family to share his success, an emotional void had widened and only the buzz of gambling seemed to fill it.
Daniel heard a knock on an inner door, and turning, he saw through the glass panelling the smiling face of Tomas, his sous chef for the week. Tomas was employed at a nearby chateau, famous for fine dining, and he’d taken a week’s leave to work with the English chef.
Raising his hand, Daniel beckoned Tomas in.
‘Hey, Tomas, did you have a good drive?’ Daniel asked and cuffed Tomas on the shoulder.
‘Oui. Everyone on time and no traffic delays.’ Tomas rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt over tattooed muscles, then tucked the hem into the narrow waist of his faded blue jeans. He sat down on one of the mismatched pastel-painted chairs.
‘What sort of group are they?’
‘Personnes d’âge.’ Tomas shrugged. ‘Mature, mostly asleep all the way,’ he added.
‘Are you sure there’s no eye candy likely to be strutting around the pool?’
‘Absolument pas!’ Tomas shook his head, and a thick blonde fringe flopped over his tanned face. Flicking it away, he added, ‘Best not to be distracted.’
‘I’m not so sure, but I agree we have work to do.’ Daniel dragged a chair over the terracotta tiled floor and pulled a file across the table.
For the next fifteen minutes, the two men studied the paperwork. They stood when they were happy that everything was in order, and both knew what was expected of the other. In a room to one side of the kitchen, uniforms, newly ordered and neatly pressed, hung by a locker, and the chefs hurriedly changed.
‘Waltho has asked for refreshments in the house at four o’clock,’ Daniel said as he buttoned his jacket. ‘There’s a welcoming reception, and the guests will need nourishment.’
‘I have everything ready,’ Tomas replied and went to a preparation room where two large fridges were heavily stocked and cupboards groaned with ingredients.
Daniel stared at his rugged reflection in a mirror beside the locker. Blue eyes that still held a twinkle stared back. His tinted hair was thick and dark. Years ago, he’d been compared to a young Elvis and his looks, though fading, enticed females of all ages. He touched his fingers to his face and examined the lines around his eyes and the slightly sagging skin beneath a finely chiselled jawline. ‘You’ve still got it.’ He confidently nodded. ‘Even if you won’t see fifty again,’ he added with a sigh.
Smoothing the crisp cotton jacket over a slight paunch, Daniel rolled his shoulders and joined his outstretched fingers. Cracking his knuckles, he winked at his reflection.
‘Are you ready to rock?’ Daniel asked Tomas.
‘Mais bien sûr,’ Tomas replied and, taking a tray laden with refreshments, led the way through the house.
* * *
Caroline stood in her room on the first floor of La Maison du Paradis. Her fingers traced the pale blue shutters as she stared out at the cameo scene ahead. Pale muslin drapes fluttered in a cooling breeze that whispered from the garden below, where the view beyond was idyllic. The soft fabric caressed her arm like a lover’s kiss, and Caroline sighed and rubbed her skin. She could hardly remember what a kiss felt like, nor the last time Stanley had shown her any affection.
Years ago, he’d been discreet and Caroline had ignored Stanley’s extra-marital affairs. She’d moved into a separate bedroom, choosing lifestyle over emotions, for living in Kensington suited her well. If he decided to play away, she’d been happy to overlook it. But as she kicked off her jewelled white sandals, she sighed and wondered if she would have continued the farcical marriage had Stanley not wanted out.
Stepping barefoot across lime-washed pine flooring, Caroline stood on a balcony, where a wrought iron table and matching chairs, covered with pale pink cushions, sat in one corner. A pretty pottery vase had been placed in the centre of the table, filled with sweet-smelling lavender. Caroline sat down and, raising her sunglasses, studied a field of sunflowers. Mesmerised by the blanket of gold swaying gently, she watched the sturdy stalks reach towards the sky. Their energy was almost tangible, and she considered the wonder of nature that created something so beautiful.
‘If only that simple, transformative state could work for me,’ she sighed.
Caroline’s shoulders relaxed for the first time in what felt like forever. The balmy air and heady scent from the garden were hypnotic, and it was all she could do to stay awake. How wonderful it would be to lie down, pillowed by feather down, on the deep mattress of the carved bed in her room and let her cares drift away. Caroline’s lids felt heavy, and her head slumped forward.
No more anxiety over her errant husband, no more financial difficulties and no business worries to disturb her sleep. Her eyes closed, and Caroline snoozed, vaguely aware of distant sparrows chirping in the hedgerows.
As the birds dive-bombed across the pool’s surface, an elderly cat lay in the hot sunshine on a pathway beneath Caroline’s balcony. Its body lazily stretched, old bones benefitting from the warm sun and fur glistening as it soaked up the sun. An occasional twitch of a tabby tail was the only acknowledgement of its presence. Under a cloudless sky, the garden shimmered in the heat, and the humid air almost vibrated with untapped energy as though waiting for La Maison du Paradis to come to life.
‘Cooee, Caro! Hello, duckie!’
Caroline’s head jerked up at the sound of Fran’s loud voice. Disorientated, she blinked as she looked around.
‘Over here!’ Fran called out. She flapped her hands and waved.
Grabbing the table, Caroline steadied herself. She realised that Fran was standing on an adjacent balcony.
‘What’s your room like?’ Fran called out. ‘Mine’s got a fancy roll-top bath!’
Caroline’s fingers smoothed her blonde bob, cut stylishly to enhance high cheekbones, and highlighted to remove any traces of grey. ‘It’s very nice,’ she snapped.
Damnation! The irritating woman was on the other side of the wall. Rigid with anger, Caroline stepped into her room, turning away from Fran. Her case sat on a luggage rack, and flinging it open, she began to unpack. As Caroline smoothed and hung her outfits in a pine armoire, she wondered if Fran would hound her throughout their stay. It felt alien to be with someone so upbeat. How would she avoid Fran if they shared almost every waking hour together in the kitchen or during activities and meals?
The woman might be nosey and if Caroline wasn’t careful, she would face intrusive questions that demanded humiliating answers.
Caroline sighed. Despite the beautiful surroundings, her holiday hadn’t begun as planned. But, she reasoned, there were others on the course, and if she ignored Fran, the woman would be drawn to someone else.
Tidying her carefully chosen outfits, Caroline vowed not to let a singular person spoil her experience. She’d paid through the nose to momentarily escape her situation and was determined to learn as much as possible from a Michelin-starred chef. God knows her business needed a lift. Caroline’s Catering had suffered horribly during the pandemic, being unable to trade, and it had been in poor financial health before then. Her divorce was hurtling along, and she knew that if she ever got back to work she’d need skilful commercial planning in the months ahead.
Opening a drawer with lavender-scented lining, Caroline neatly placed her underwear. She mustn’t think about all that now. La Maison du Paradis was meeting all her expectations. Her room was delightful, the house looked charming, and she couldn’t wait to meet the host and the celebrity chef.
Caroline’s face lit up when she stepped into the bathroom. A chandelier hung above the marble-tiled floor, and a gilded French mirror had been placed above an antique wooden table stacked with soft, fluffy towels and expensive toiletries. Wall sconces matched brass taps, and bright white tiling gave a fresh, modern twist. She thought that the person who’d designed this room had a great deal of flair as she removed her clothes and stepped into the shower.
A short while later, Caroline was ready for the welcome reception.
With immaculate hair and fresh makeup, she smiled and sprayed a generous amount of Dioriviera; the floral perfume was pleasing and reminded her of old-fashioned roses. Picking up her St Marc clutch bag, she slid the silver chain over her shoulder, locked the room and placed the key in the pocket of her white linen dress.
Gripping the rail of a sweeping staircase that led to the ground floor, Caroline descended into a hallway, where stained glass above an oak door shone shafts of colourful light. She could hear chattering voices beyond the double doors to her left, and she reached out to turn the handles. Caroline was used to elegance and good taste, and her Kensington home reflected this, as did the many homes she visited when catering for high-profile dinner parties and events. But the salon that she entered took her breath away.
Huge windows highlighted a light and spacious area. Adding to the room’s symmetry, they made the plastered walls appear taller, creating the perfect canvas for art displays. A myriad of soft colours in throws and drapes seemed inspired by the beauty of the countryside beyond open patio doors. Parquet flooring, in a herringbone pattern, was covered in antique rugs. As Caroline moved forward, she stared at the slightly distressed furniture, which, together with valuable antique pieces, added to the comfort of the room.
An arrangement of sunflowers stood in a tall vase on a console table where a silver bowl held ice and chilled bottles, and Caroline realised she was thirsty.
‘Mrs Carrington.’ A man appeared and held out his hand. ‘My name is Waltho Williams, and I welcome you to my home.’
‘I’m very pleased to be here,’ Caroline replied, noting that her handsome host was dressed conservatively in chinos and a short-sleeved shirt. He oozed grace and good manners. ‘Do call me Caroline,’ she said and shook his hand.
‘May I offer you some refreshment?’ he asked. ‘A soft drink, wine, champagne?’
‘Champagne would be perfect.’
‘I trust your journey wasn’t too tiring?’ Waltho handed her a tall flute.
‘Hot and humid in London and busy at the airports.’ Caroline took a sip of the deliciously chilled drink.
‘I’m afraid that the weather isn’t much cooler here. We’ve had a heatwave for several weeks with no sign of it abating.’
‘I hope your kitchen has air-conditioning; it will be unbearable without it.’
‘Sadly, this old property lacks such modern installations.’ Waltho smiled. ‘But we’ve fitted many fans and will do our best to ensure you are comfortable.’
Caroline wanted to say it was the very least he could do for the exorbitant price she’d paid, but she was taken aback. There was something about Waltho’s eyes, where gold flecks sparkled from endless depths of amber. Used only to Stanley’s deep pools of blue, which were mostly cold and unwelcoming, Caroline was mesmerised. She hardly noticed a woman dressed in a vibrant lime-green kaftan who joined them.
‘Hello, I’m Angelique,’ the woman announced as she refreshed Caroline’s glass. ‘I’m your hostess during your stay,’ she added.
Caroline turned to observe the jangling silver bangles covering Angelique’s arms. Large ruby drops hung from her ears, and her red hair was swept into a heavy pleat with a diamante comb. As the hostess poured, Caroline’s gaze noted Angelique’s fingernails, painted individually in the colours of the rainbow. Suddenly feeling frumpy, Caroline adjusted the strap of her bag and quickly dismissed the thought as she smoothed her fingers over her designer dress. Angelique asked about her journey, and Caroline muttered a reply before querying Angelique’s accent, which she couldn’t place.
‘I’m Dutch, with an English mother,’ Angelique explained.
As they conversed politely and Waltho stood alongside, Caroline studied Angelique’s pale, freckled complexion, contrasting starkly with Waltho’s rich brown skin. They made a striking couple.
Suddenly, the salon doors burst open, and Fran entered the room. Caroline had almost forgotten about her travelling companion and sighed as she watched Fran’s entrance.
‘So sorry, me darlings,’ Fran laughed, ‘I fell asleep in the bath and got my bum wedged in. It’s taken me forever to climb out.’
Fran grinned, and Caroline noted that lipstick smeared on her teeth was now a bright shade of cerise. Her tight-fitting, animal-print jumpsuit was adorned with chunky, tacky jewellery that seemed to cover every spare inch of Fran’s flesh.
‘Hello, Caro!’ Fran called out and, helping herself to a cordial, bustled over to join them.
Caroline took a step back. What on earth was the woman thinking? Fran’s outfit would be better suited to an afternoon in a gaming arcade at the end of a seaside pier. Not the refinement of a French manor house.
Moving away from Fran, Caroline’s eyes were drawn to an unsigned painting in the middle of the wall. Shades of purple and hues of blue framed the face of a woman, turned upward as though looking at an unseen moon, her eyes a cornflower blue and her expression serene. Long golden hair cascaded down her back, merging with a border of lavender blooms.
‘This artwork is exceptional,’ Caroline said, ‘who’s the artist?’
Waltho coughed. Gripping his glass, he stepped back.
Before Caroline could repeat her question, Angelique moved to the centre of the room and announced. ‘I would like to introduce your host for this holiday,’ Angelique said. ‘Please, everyone, meet Waltho Williams.’
Waltho smiled shyly as polite applause rippled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it is my pleasure to welcome you to La Maison du Paradis for what I hope will be an informative, rewarding and joyful week of gastronomy, relaxation and making new friends.’
Heads nodded as guests looked around to study the people they would soon get to know.
‘There are a few housekeeping rules, and Angelique will explain. I look forward to acquainting myself with you all when we meet for dinner.’ Waltho smiled again as the door to the salon opened. ‘Your meal this evening is being prepared by a talented chef eager to meet you. Let me introduce your tutor.’ Waltho swept out an arm. ‘Daniel Douglas de Beers.’
Daniel entered the room, and everyone turned. The chef made the most of his entrance and circled the guests, shaking outstretched hands.
When Caroline’s hand was pumped, she was blinded by a set of molars straighter and brighter than her own. Staring at his nut-brown face, which contrasted starkly against the white of a logoed jacket, Caroline wondered how many hours he’d spent sunbathing by the pool. But, to his credit, she found Daniel as charming as his many guest appearances on TV cookery shows.
Fran lumbered across the room and kissed the chef’s cheek, ‘Hello, duckie!’ she said, leaving a sizeable cerise imprint. ‘I must have your autograph,’ she babbled, whipping a folding fan out of her cleavage. ‘Gawd, it’s hot.’ Fran waved the fan across her face. ‘My Sid watches all your shows; he thinks I’ll be able to cook like you by the time I get home.’
‘I will endeavour to please both you and your husband.’ Daniel raised his hand to flick back a thick lock of hair that had slipped from his carefully arranged coiffure. ‘Now, please enjoy the refreshments,’ he instructed, waving Tomas forward.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Fran said as Tomas produced a tray of tiny entrees. She grabbed a plate and tucked into a miniature whirl.
‘Really!’ Caroline whispered as Fran brushed puff pastry flakes from her chin. She was fed up with Fran and stared as her bulging mouth moved robotically. It’s enough to put one off food forever, she thought.
Caroline decided she needed some air and, ignoring Fran, deposited her empty glass on the console. Marching through the room to the open doors, she vanished into the garden.