Fran watched Caroline leave the room. With a superior air, she reached into a posh leather bag and placed enormous sunglasses on the bridge of her perfect nose before disappearing outside. As Fran ate a salmon savoury, she sat down and wondered if Caroline had eaten. Her rake-thin figure suggested it unlikely and, licking mayonnaise from her lips, Fran considered why someone so svelte would choose to spend a week at a cookery school, where guests would be encouraged to indulge each day.
Maybe she has a speedy metabolism, Fran thought. Perhaps Caroline was one of those athletic types who could eat whatever they liked and never put a pound on. She wore her clothes well on her slim body, and her gorgeous white jewelled sandals were obviously very expensive. Fran bit into a blini with cream cheese and chuckled. She only had to look at a cupcake and she went up a dress size.
‘Would you like a confection?’ Tomas appeared and held out a porcelain platter.
Fran stared at the assortment of delicate treats. She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin, leaving a faint pink blot. ‘These look lovely,’ Fran said, ‘what have we here?’
‘These are macarons.’ Tomas smiled. ‘A type of almond meringue.’
‘Yummy,’ Fran replied and picked out a strawberry flavour.
‘They are sandwiched together with a filling, and I am sure Chef will instruct, in a lesson, this week.’
‘Smashing.’ Fran smiled and bit into the smooth exterior. The slightly crisp texture melted on her tongue.
‘You notice the lightness and délicatesse?’ Tomas asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Fran sighed, ‘bloody lovely.’ She spied a chocolate macaron and reached out. ‘But if I eat too many of these, you’ll have to hoist me onto the bus to go back home.’
‘Life is like chocolate, savour it before it melts.’
‘I like that expression.’ Fran smiled again. ‘I like these too, they are gorgeous.’
‘C’est bien, faites-vous plaisir.’
Fran had no idea what Tomas had said, but her eyes studied his luscious lips and his velvety words sounded like the purr of a satisfied cat.
‘I could listen to you all day,’ Fran giggled. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you are handsome and have a very sexy voice?’
‘Mais, oui.’ Tomas’s grin was wicked. ‘And I cook how I look.’
Fran almost choked on her chocolate macaron. ‘Get away with you.’ She playfully slapped Tomas on his arm.
Laughing, Tomas turned away.
Taking a sip of her cordial, Fran watched the young man glide across the room. She thought being young, naturally charming and drop-dead gorgeous would ease Tomas through life and she silently wished him well. But what would Sid think if he saw his wife of forty years going weak at the knee? At least she still had a romantic pulse, and there was nothing wrong with admiring the beauty of youth.
‘Oh Sid,’ Fran sighed as she watched Tomas offer his plate to the twin sisters who giggled like schoolgirls as they accepted a macaron. ‘What am I doing on a cookery course like this?’
Daniel Douglas De Beers had his back to Fran and was surrounded. As she watched him meet and greet the sisters, she remembered why she’d made this trip to France.
Her husband idolised Daniel.
Sid considered the chef one of the most skilled on the culinary scene. He always made sure that he watched Daniel’s shows and said that the chef was “a man’s man” who liked a drink and was often seen at rugby matches and horse racing meetings. But as Fran heard Daniel charm the pants off the two sisters she thought he was very much a ladies’ man.
Fran suddenly felt very tired; it had been such an early start. Placing her drink down, she yawned, ruminating on her husband’s plans. Her head fell forward, and closing her eyes, she began to daydream. In moments, Fran was asleep.
* * *
‘You could cook like that,’ Sid had told Fran when they sat with supper on trays on their knees at home in Dunromin, their house in a cul-de-sac at Blackpool’s North Shore. A popular cookery show was on TV and Sid waved his fork at the screen to study Daniel Douglas De Beers whipping up a few simple ingredients to produce a delectable dish.
‘Posh food made simple,’ Sid added as he forked a sausage. ‘Just imagine if you knew how to knock out a menu that would have folks queuing at the door,’ Sid said as he noted the ingredients Daniel used in his recipe. ‘That chef makes everything look easy. You’d pick it up in no time. Just think, lass,’ Sid said wistfully, ‘we could transform our café into a posh restaurant.’
For weeks, Fran had wondered if Sid was taking some hallucinatory drug and had kept an eye on the post for suspicious parcels or surreptitious knocks on the door. She knew that she was a dab hand at the fryer and made the best batter in Blackpool. Fran’s Fish ’n’ Chips were notorious, and folk queued out of the door for a Friday Night Special. But fine dining was never on the menu at their café and Fran doubted that her cooking could ever live up to Sid’s expectations.
Not to be deterred, Sid was persistent. He’d always dreamt of putting their hometown of Blackpool on the culinary map. ‘You’ve got to have a dream, to make your dream come true,’ Sid often told Fran.
During the dark days of the pandemic, their takeaway business had soared, and their bank balance reached a level they’d never imagined. ‘Let’s give a fancy restaurant a go, lass,’ Sid pleaded. ‘If it doesn’t work out, we can always go back to selling fish and chips.’
‘Why don’t we buy a place in Spain?’ Fran asked, still reluctant to commit and conscious that they had money to afford a nice villa.
But Sid’s dream had been one he’d talked of since the first day they’d met.
‘I want to serve the best food in Blackpool.’ Sid was emphatic when, as innocent teenagers, they’d sat on the prom in deckchairs overlooking the crowded beach. ‘Look at all these folk.’ He spread out an arm and pointed to holidaymakers enjoying donkey rides and Mr Whippy ice creams. Straightening his button-down Ben Sherman shirt, Sid fiddled with braces supporting two-toned trousers.
At the same time, Fran thoughtfully dunked a straw in her bottle of Babycham. ‘The best grub is fish and chips,’ Fran replied, ‘that’s what Blackpool is known for.’
Sid had lit a Woodbine and offered it to Fran. ‘Alright,’ he’d agreed, ‘I know you’re right, but no one can take a dream away, and it’s my dream that one day Sid and Fran Cartwright will have foodies flocking to our door.’
Working two jobs each, the ambitious young couple soon saved enough for a lease on a shack on the Golden Mile. Selling candy floss and burgers, in time, they rented a fish and chip café by the central pier, which they eventually purchased. But Sid never lost sight of his dream, and as the years rolled by, Fran anxiously kept a silent counsel, knowing that it would take great courage to change course from the life that they knew.
* * *
‘Wake up, sleepy head.’
Fran felt a hand on her arm and opened her eyes to see Angelique standing before her. ‘Oh heck, I must have dozed off.’ Fran rolled her shoulders and wriggled her bottom until she was upright in her chair.
‘Can I get anything for you?’ Angelique asked.
‘No, I’ll be as right as rain, just a power nap,’ Fran grinned, ‘you look after the others.’ She reached for her cordial, and as she slowly sipped, her daydream re-surfaced, and she thought more about her husband.
Sid was the best husband she could ever have wished for, and she loved him with all her heart. The balding man with a paunch, who’d stood by her side since schooldays, had supported her through thick and thin, every trial and tribulation and, Fran sighed, there had been plenty of those.
Fran smiled, and as she noted Waltho discuss a painting with a guest, she thought of Sid searching the internet in his endless quest to research cookery schools. How he’d jumped for joy when he discovered Daniel was hosting a week’s tuition in France!
And now, here she was. Intoxicated by Sid’s excitement, she’d given in and gone along with the idea. After all, her old man was right. If their restaurant failed, they could always return to serving fish and chips. A staple diet in Blackpool.
Fran thought France was the stuff of dreams as she stared at the lovely antiques and elegant surroundings, and she determined, somehow, she’d soak up every bit of knowledge from the celebrity chef. Fran knew that she’d have to work as hard as possible to discover fine dining secrets. Sid was keen to open the doors of Fran’s Finest Fare, and she prayed they’d made the right decision. But at sixty-one, was Fran up to the challenge?
‘Girl power for the over-sixties!’ Fran nervously giggled out loud.
‘I’m pleased to see that you are amused.’
Fran looked up to see Daniel standing before her. For a moment, she thought Elvis had entered the building as the sun streamed into the room and silhouetted the chef. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look like Elvis?’ Fran asked and patted the seat next to her.
‘It has been mentioned that I resemble the famous man in his younger days.’ Daniel sat down. He ran his fingers through his hair, unconsciously creating a quiff.
‘Aye, I can see that,’ Fran smiled. She thought Daniel looked like Elvis at the end of his career but considered it impolite to comment. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you,’ she said, ‘you’ve got a great deal to teach me.’
‘I’ll certainly do my best,’ Daniel assured.
‘Your best won’t be good enough. I want a cast-iron guarantee that I will leave here capable of cooking and creating dishes just like you.’
Daniel did a double take as he studied the middle-aged woman dressed like a soap opera barmaid.
‘Aye, I know I don’t look like a chef.’ Fran realised she still held a sticky chocolate macaron in one hand. She popped it in her mouth and munched. ‘But with your help, that has to change.’
‘Then I warn you, we have much work to do.’
‘I’ve never shied away from hard work,’ Fran replied, and with a knowing smile, she nodded and confidently patted Daniel’s thigh.
* * *
As buzzing cicadas provided a background melody to the sultry summer evening, Waltho stood by a serving counter in the courtyard and watched Angelique move around the long oak table beneath the gazebo. Every few steps, she stopped to check a place setting and adjust the position of a knife or glass. The table looked inviting as warm rays of end-of-day sunshine cast a golden glow. Wildflowers placed in jars and tied with ribbon were centred on a runner, giving colour to the stark white of porcelain plates and linen napkins.
Reaching for a corkscrew, Waltho popped the corks from bottles of wine as Angelique placed menus, and as she passed, she held one out.
‘Tonight, they eat like kings,’ she said, ‘Daniel and Tomas have prepared a delicious dinner.’
Waltho smiled. ‘Tomorrow, guests will dine on the fruits of their labours in the kitchen.’ Picking up a menu, he read out loud.
La Maison du Paradis presents…
Warm chicken livers and chanterelles on toast
Steak au poivre with wilted spinach
Baked custard tart with strawberries.
Cheese from the region
The menu was deliberately English enough to suit their guests on the first night. Waltho had been surprised that no one expressed concerns over dietary needs. These days, everyone seemed fixated on intolerance to staples such as wheat, nuts, shellfish or dairy. And with no vegetarians, Chef’s extensive recipes could be enjoyed by all.
‘Almost time,’ Angelique said and lit the candles.
For the dinner service, Angelique wore white with jewels bordering the collar and cuffs of her gown. It was a striking contrast to her red hair, loosely piled into a chignon with tendrils escaping and falling to her shoulders.
‘You look delightful,’ Waltho said.
Angelique turned and smiled.
‘Ah, here they come.’ Waltho moved forward to welcome guests who slowly appeared from different sections of the house to assemble on the terrace.
‘Good evening, Jeanette and Pearl,’ Waltho greeted the Bournemouth sisters. ‘I hope you have everything you need?’
‘Yes, we do,’ they chimed as they took an aperitif, ‘and our room is lovely.’
‘And which of you is Jeanette?’ Waltho asked, looking from one to the other.
The identical sisters giggled. ‘Jeanette always wears a turquoise necklace, and my necklace is pearl,’ Pearl informed him.
‘Ah, that helps,’ Waltho laughed.
Turning his head, he saw Caroline. She wore a peach-coloured dress that hugged her body and swirled at the knee. Waltho thought how lovely she looked as he handed her a drink and watched Caroline turn to talk to the sisters.
Next came a slim, smartly dressed man. Joining Caroline’s group, he rubbed at heavily rimmed spectacles with a clean white handkerchief and bowed slightly.
‘Hello, everyone,’ the man said, ‘my name is Ahmed Singh.’ Placing the spectacles on his nose and running fingers through thick dark hair, he explained that he’d also travelled from London. Cautious of flying, he preferred travelling by train.
Ahmed was interrupted when the short, bossy woman with a sharply cut, jet-black bob, who’d travelled in the minibus, appeared.
‘Good evening,’ she said, ‘I’m Bridgette Haworth from Lancashire.’
Guests gazed at Bridgette’s flower-embellished headband and ankle-length tube dress patterned with leaves. Once seated, Bridgette would merge into the foliage around the gazebo.
Meanwhile, at the rear of the house, newcomers climbed out of taxis, and Angelique welcomed three locals. Well-known to each other, the expats had purchased properties in and around Poitiers in the days when fifty thousand euros would buy a mansion. Now, with their French citizenship, retired and often bored, they were keen to dig into their gilt-edged pensions for the novelty of an English man cooking in France and had enrolled to join the course each day.
Waltho and Angelique handed out olives and tiny cheese puffs, and both looked up when Fran, almost running, hurried across the courtyard. Still wearing her animal-print jumpsuit, she’d added a matching scarf that scooped her hair into a turban style.
‘Oh heck!’ Fran said, ‘So sorry, I got talking to Sid and couldn’t get him off the phone.’ She breathed as Waltho handed her a drink. ‘He’s keen to hear my news.’
‘How agreeable that he is so interested,’ Angelique offered Fran a cheese puff.
‘Yes, he wants to know everything about everyone,’ Fran laughed. ‘You’d think he was on this holiday with me.’
Guests were wide-eyed as they watched a cheese puff slip from Fran’s fingers and disappear down her cleavage.
‘That’s a goner,’ Fran laughed. ‘It will take a brave man to fish that one out. Any offers?’
Tomas appeared and announced that dinner was ready. Angelique guided guests to the table, and Caroline took Ahmed’s arm. ‘Rescued!’ she whispered to a bemused Ahmed.
Everyone shook out napkins as Waltho poured wine. The sun had begun to dip, creating a glow across the sky, and suddenly, a myriad of twinkling lanterns draped around the courtyard came alight, creating a magical atmosphere that embraced the oncoming night.
‘Bob appetite!’ The guests raised glasses. ‘Here’s to a wonderful holiday!’