Sally Parker-Brown was exhausted. The drive had been busy after disembarking from the Brittany Ferry at St Malo. Despite using toll roads, which were usually clear, she’d been frustrated by holiday traffic, motorhomes and caravans all heading south for the summer. School was out, and most of France appeared to be on vacation. Was it her imagination, or did truck drivers enjoy taunting Sally in her Mercedes-Benz? It was terribly distracting when horns hooted and speed limits were ignored as Sally sailed along the autoroutes, passing everything ahead. As she negotiated the busy streets of Le Mans, Sally, who was thirsty, hot and hungry, looked forward to a pit stop.
She needed strong coffee and something substantial to eat.
The car park at Hotel Le Prince was full, but to her relief, a Renault with a family on board was pulling out, and Sally smoothly manoeuvred into the parking space. She yawned as she turned off the ignition and, lifting her arms, stretched wide. For the umpteenth time that day, Sally wondered if it would have been easier to fly to France and take the cookery school transport to La Maison du Paradis. She could have relaxed and even enjoyed a few glasses of wine during the journey, watching the world pass by at someone else’s pace.
But one of Sally’s passions in life was her car and Romeo, her beloved Mercedes-Benz SL class two-door coupé, was Sally’s pride and joy. Her heart lurched whenever she looked at the brilliant white paintwork and soft leather interior in the boldest shade of red. Romeo was a high-powered sports car who never let her down. He never broke her heart, and time spent in his company was the highlight of Sally’s day.
When she’d received Waltho’s invitation for a complimentary place at the cookery school in return for publicity wherever she could place an article, the journalist had jumped at the chance. It was also the perfect opportunity to put Romeo on the road and enjoy a lovely drive through France.
Sally grabbed her oversized tote bag and checked the passenger seat to ensure she’d not left anything of value. Then, easing herself out, she straightened her crumpled shorts, smoothed her T-shirt and locked her car.
She winced when, at the hotel reception desk, she learned that the parking charge was now twenty euros. It had been half the price the last time she’d arrived here. Taking her receipt, she thanked the receptionist and made her way out through a cobblestone passage to a large courtyard at the side of the hotel. The atmosphere was buzzing with laughter and chinking glasses against a background of modern music. Sipping and smiling, an eclectic mix of people sat in chic, colourful clothes beneath bright-coloured canopies. Pendant lights and strings of lanterns created ambient light as diners hustled for space at the different outlets serving food and wine.
‘Déjà vu…’ Sally whispered, and, for a moment, the previous year dissolved, and she saw herself sitting at a table in the busy wine bar attached to the hotel. A bottle of Beau Joie champagne brut sat in an ice bucket. Halfway down her third glass, Sally was holding the hand of a dark-haired man, staring into the deep pool of his aqua-blue eyes and drowning in the depths.
Ross Briscoe. The love of her life. The man who’d broken her heart into a thousand little pieces and, as fast as the speed he drove, had tossed them into the wind.
Sally shook her head. It was no use trawling over old times, she told herself. She’d stopped here to erase the memory and by following previous footsteps, finally bury her lover’s ghost.
The wine bar was full, and an oppressive heat hung like a curtain. Sally squeezed through groups of friends, families and couples and found a stool where she perched herself at a high-top table. Catching the waiter’s attention, she ordered water and a glass of Ross’s favourite champagne. To hell with the cost, and one glass of bubbles with food wouldn’t affect her driving. She remembered the last meal they’d shared here and studied the menu. Her mouth watered as she decided between a charcuterie board, pâté and cornichons, or a cheese platter. When the waiter returned, she closed the menu and asked for a plate of grenouille au beurre à l’ail.
Raising her champagne, Sally called out, ‘To hell with you, Ross Briscoe!’
Nearby diners turned to stare with curiosity at the dishevelled English woman with vivid pink hair who was talking to herself.
Sally’s food arrived, and as she tucked in, she grinned. Ross had been horrified when he realised that the food he’d ordered was, in fact, frog in garlic butter and not the tender chicken breast he’d expected. He explained that, as a kid, he’d had a pet frog named Fred in the pond at his parent’s home. Eating a French Fred, he said as his handsome face twisted into a scowl, would make him feel like a cannibal.
‘That will teach you to learn a bit of the language,’ Sally muttered as she chewed a chunk of French Fred, dipped bread and licked warm, garlicky sauce from her lips. ‘You can’t depend on me anymore to translate your menu choice.’
‘L’anglais…’ hissed a haughty-looking woman sitting at the adjacent table with a long, angular nose. Cradling a small dog, she held a smouldering cigarette in a holder. She shook her head as she listened to Sally reason with herself. The dog began to yap, and stroking fur bunched in a tiny red ribbon, the woman rolled her eyes and turned away.
Sally pushed her plate to one side and asked for a café noir with an extra shot. She needed the caffeine to keep her awake for the final part of her journey. As Sally sipped the strong coffee, the memory of her time with Ross seeped back. A vintage sports car enthusiast, he’d been racing at Le Mans Classic, and they’d booked their accommodation at Hotel Le Prince. On the last night, Ross gave Sally a ring as they sat in this same wine bar.
A silver band with three embedded emeralds.
‘Like the colour of your eyes,’ Ross said as Sally stroked the tiny green jewels.
She’d forced a smile when he told her it was a friendship ring, a sign of how well their relationship worked. She’d hoped for more in her besotted state, but as she slipped the ring onto her right hand, she was confident that an engagement ring would soon follow.
‘Désirez-vous autre chose?’ the waiter asked as he whipped Sally’s empty coffee cup from the table.
‘No, thanks,’ Sally replied. She felt elated as she thrust enough euros to cover her bill into his outstretched hand. The visit had been cathartic. ‘I won’t require anything else from this establishment.’ Slipping off her stool, Sally addressed the surrounding diners. ‘In fact, this is the last time you will see me. My days here are done.’
Grabbing her bag, she flung it onto her shoulder. As she passed the woman with the dog, Sally ruffled the animal’s fur. ‘Woof, woof!’ she called out and marched away.
‘Mon Dieu…’ The woman took a deep drag on her cigarette, closed her eyes and covered the dog’s ears. ‘The crazy English…’ she sighed.
* * *
On the first day of the cookery course, breakfast at La Maison du Paradis was a lively affair. Following a good night’s sleep, guests were up early and eager to enjoy a sumptuous buffet in the salon. Angelique busied herself as she encouraged people to help themselves to the tempting display of cold meats, a variety of cheese, fruit, bread and pastries.
Caroline spooned a slice of nectarine into a bowl, then added a teaspoon of natural yoghurt and a drizzle of honey. Looking around at the tables that had been arranged, she decided to sit outside on the terrace, where a canopy created shade. The temperature felt warm despite the early hour, and another blistering hot day lay ahead.
As she sipped iced water and ate slowly, Caroline thought of the previous night. The conversation had been animated as guests got to know each other, and Angelique asked everyone to introduce themselves.
‘More wine!’ Bridgette, tucking into her dinner, held up her glass for Waltho to refill. Turning to the guests, the bossy little woman announced, ‘I’m an expert gardener, a recipient of the Chelsea Flower Show gold award multiple times, and am the owner of Flaxby Manor.’ Bridgette paused to take a sip. ‘I’ve been married to Hugo for most of my life but am now widowed. I’m the youngest seventy-something I know and searching for new experiences.’
Heads nodded with interest, but before questions could be asked, Angelique asked Ahmed to introduce himself.
Pushing his chair back and standing, Ahmed gave a little bow and began shyly, ‘Hello,’ he began, ‘I’m Ahmed Singh, and I’m a retired dentist from Solihull.’
‘Anything to add to that?’ Bridgette asked as she picked a strand of wilted spinach from a front tooth.
Caroline watched Ahmed shake his head and return to his seat, suddenly fascinated with his spectacles as though reluctant to share more. She turned to the sisters as Angelique invited them to speak.
‘Jeanette and Pearl, we’re obviously twins,’ they laughed. ‘I wear a pearl necklace, and Jeanette’s is turquoise,’ Pearl added, ‘so you can tell us apart.’ They stroked the rope of gems at their throats. ‘We have a bustling gift shop in Bath by Pulteney Bridge.’
‘Bath is a marvellous city,’ Bridgette butted in. ‘Parade Gardens are a horticultural heaven.’
‘Yes, Bath has some beautiful, landscaped areas.’ Pearl agreed. ‘We thought this holiday would be fun as we love France and enjoy cooking.’
Caroline’s response had been short when it came to her own turn.
‘My name is Caroline Carrington, and I am the proprietor of Caroline’s Catering in Kensington,’ she informed everyone before abruptly turning to her dinner.
‘Thank you.’ Angelique smiled and indicated that Fran should go next.
‘Well, you’ve probably guessed that I’m a Lancashire lass,’ Fran beamed.
Caroline shuddered. A layer of cerise gloss coated Fran’s teeth.
‘Sid and me have a fish and chip café by the central pier in Blackpool,’ Fran ploughed on, ‘and it’s always been Sid’s dream to have a fancy restaurant.’ She picked a peppercorn from her tongue and nudged Bridgette. ‘Eh, that steak is lovely, isn’t it?’
Bridgette, who was still grappling with wilted spinach, nodded her head.
‘Anyway,’ Fran said, ‘when the pandemic happened, our business went through the roof with takeaways because everywhere was closed. Folk on the Fylde Coast love their fish and chips,’ she added. ‘Sid invested in a couple of delivery vans, and we were swamped with orders from noon till night. So, with tons of money swimming about in our bank accounts, Sid says now is the time to take a leap of faith and live his dream of opening a fancy restaurant.’
Intrigued, Caroline sat up. How she wished that her bank account was swimming about with money and how odd it was to hear someone being so open about their finances. In her Kensington circle, everyone had sealed lips where incomes were concerned.
‘And here you are, Fran,’ Angelique concluded and turned to other guests, nodding approval.
Now, as Caroline sat in the morning sunshine and finished her breakfast, she tore her thoughts away from the previous evening.
* * *
In the garden, Sally Parker-Brown was strolling along the lavender path. Her journalistic eyes took in neatly trimmed boxwood hedges and tall cypress trees casting shadows, reflected on the surface of the swimming pool. Fluffy puffs of cloud drifted overhead and a scorching sun bathed a quaint stone fountain where crystal clear water cascaded in a graceful arc, rippling into circles in the basin below.
‘What a setting,’ Sally breathed and thought of the articles that would soon spring from her keyboard.
Sally’s late arrival had surprised everyone when she’d driven her gorgeous sports car onto the drive as guests bid each other goodnight. With only a brief introduction, they’d been interested to learn that Sally was a food writer and here to take notes on the course.
‘Good morning!’ Caroline looked up and called out to Sally.
Sally, who’d been for a swim, wore a pretty polka-dot bikini that matched her pale pink hair. She carried a towel and held up her hand to wave.
‘Are you joining us for breakfast?’ Caroline asked.
‘No thanks, I rarely eat at this time of day,’ Sally replied, patting her stomach. ‘I try to keep the pounds off but don’t have much luck.’
* * *
Caroline watched Sally head to her room on the other side of the house and thought the journalist had a perfect hourglass figure. But she was sympathetic to anyone who wished to stay slim. After all, she’d been on a diet all her life and working with the constant temptation of food needed great discipline.
An aroma of patchouli wafted by, and Caroline noticed Angelique. Elegant in an embroidered cheesecloth kaftan, she moved gracefully amongst the guests, offering more coffee while advising that class would begin at nine o’clock. Chef liked his students to be punctual.
From beyond the salon doors, Fran’s voice boomed. ‘Best get ready!’ she called out.
Caroline sighed. The woman was like a foghorn, constantly alerting anyone in her vicinity to the sound of her voice.
‘There you are, Caro.’ Fran appeared on the terrace. ‘Hiding away by yourself. You should have let me know, and I would have joined you for breakfast.’
‘What a shame I missed you.’ Caroline folded her napkin and, placing it on the table, pushed back her chair.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Fran asked. She was nibbling a pain au chocolat and holding a glass of apple juice.
‘Not as well as I might,’ Caroline said. In truth, she’d spent most of the night with earplugs and a pillow moulded around her head to drown out the snores coming from the other side of her bedroom wall.
‘I slept like a baby,’ Fran replied, glugging back her juice. ‘Must be something in the air.’ She placed the empty glass on the table and dabbed at the pastry flakes around her mouth.
‘Yes, I believe you did.’ Caroline resisted the urge to tell her neighbour that she’d slept the sleep of the dead, which kept Caroline awake for hours.
There was no point in starting the day on a sour note.
‘Oh, look.’ Fran ran forward. ‘There’s a pussy!’ She bent down to stroke the sizeable tabby that circled her legs.
Caroline was allergic to cats and didn’t appreciate Fran’s sudden display of adoration. Shaking her head and moving away, she replied, ‘I’d prefer it if you kept your pussy well away from me.’
Fran, who’d scooped the fluffy creature into her arms, stifled a laugh. ‘Don’t worry, duckie, there’s no danger of that!’