An enticing aroma of fresh herbs and spices greeted the guests as they returned to the kitchen following the break. Bridgette and Ahmed, who’d enjoyed coffee, sitting companionably together in the sunshine on a garden swing beside the vegetable garden, pulled out chairs and sat down. Bridgette pulled her face into a scowl as Daniel rang his bell and explained that the session would cover the art of preserving.
As the chef described the need for a steriliser in good condition and Tomas placed clean glass jars on the table, Bridgette held up her hand.
‘Excuse me for interrupting, Chef,’ Bridgette began, ‘but I am perfectly capable of making jam at home and know how to sterilise a bottle.’ She looked around at the group. ‘I am sure others will join me in saying that we are here to learn clever cooking tips from a Michelin-starred chef, not make marmalade?’
No one spoke, and heads bowed as Daniel looked up from his steriliser.
‘So, you know how to do this?’ His lip curled as he stared at Bridgette and pointed to the ingredients on the table. ‘You can make a perfect tomato sauce from scratch or a wonderful mushroom and olive paste?’
‘Well, I am sure…’ Bridgette stuttered.
‘And you know how to preserve the lemons used in Moroccan cookery or make a flawless herb oil and perfectly pickled cherries?’ Daniel’s eyes blazed. The chef, unused to having his skills questioned, was livid. ‘Perhaps you will explain how to pot pork or preserve goose,’ Daniel reasoned, ‘and I would be most interested to hear your thoughts on brawn.’
‘No one eats brawn these days,’ Bridgette retaliated, but her face was flushed, and she was already regretting her question.
Daniel pulled a tray of ingredients towards him and held up a pig’s tail, part of the animal’s head and a trotter. ‘Brawn is a delicacy on many fine-dining menus today and takes great skill to prepare.’
Jeanette and Pearl held their pens in the air and piped up, ‘We would like to know how to make brawn,’ they chimed.
‘Can’t beat a bit of brawn,’ Fran added, ‘lovely with a slice of gherkin.’
Daniel turned away from Bridgette and, smiling at the rest of the group, proceeded with his preserving master class.
* * *
Two hours later, Fran held a bottle of tomato sauce in her hand and turned to Ahmed, ‘Who knew that you could add onions, mustard powder, paprika, cloves, garlic, peppers and oil to tomatoes and make the most delicious sauce I have ever tasted?’ Fran licked her lips, which were stained dark with her concoction. ‘This will be better than ketchup on my chips.’
‘Ah, but you have forgotten one ingredient,’ Ahmed warned, shaking his head.
‘I don’t think so.’ Fran looked puzzled and picked up her recipe sheet to study it. ‘What have I forgotten?’ she asked.
‘LOVE!’ Ahmed called out and began to laugh.
‘Oh, there’s plenty of that in here.’ Fran laughed too, then grabbed her pen to write a fancy label. Fran’s Fantastic Tomato Sauce, she wrote in her best handwriting.
‘Made with love,’ Ahmed replied as he fashioned a label for his jar of quince jelly. ‘Look out, Chef is heading our way with his tasting spoons.’
Fran looked up as Daniel bore down and dipped a long-handled spoon in Ahmed’s quince jelly. ‘Superb!’ he said and touched a finger to his thumb. ‘Magnifique, Ahmed.’ Taking another spoon, Daniel tasted Fran’s tomato sauce. ‘No, far too seasoned.’
Daniel dramatically winced as though he’d been stung by a bee and Fran thought he was overplaying his reaction. Was it his intention to put her through her paces if she was to fulfil her dream?
‘Focus more, Fran,’ Daniel added before moving away.
Fran was stunned and turned to shield her face from the group.
‘Oh, Fran.’ Ahmed put an arm on Fran’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get upset; I think your sauce is delicious.’
‘Thanks, Ahmed,’ Fran sniffed. ‘I’m a silly old mare. It’s just that I thought I’d got it spot on. Chef is right, I need to listen more.’
Tomas clapped his hands, and everyone stopped what they were doing.
‘Angelique has instructed me to tell you to meet at the front of the house in ten minutes, where transport awaits,’ Tomas announced, ‘I will be driving you to a surprise destination.’
Sliding paperwork into folders, the group packed up and headed off.
‘Blimey, not much time for a wash,’ Fran muttered as she flapped her blouse with her fingers to cool her skin. Catching up with Sally, they hurried to their rooms.
‘Nor any time to sort my hair.’ Sally ruffled her frizzy hair.
‘You look grand, lass, don’t worry about it.’
Caroline was ahead of them, and Fran called, ‘Oi, Caro! Save us a seat on the bus!’
* * *
On the edge of the village Poutaloux-Beauvoir, a bridge made of golden bricks formed a welcoming arch over the river Vienne. In one direction lay a cluster of houses adorned with cascading baskets of colourful blossoms and overflowing window boxes. Various businesses traded their wares nearby, including a bakery, bar and hair salon. Beside the bridge, a winding path led down to grassy riverbanks where locals and visitors often gathered to bathe in the cool, clear water on hot days, picnic under the trees, or sit and admire the peaceful countryside.
Waltho and Angelique had travelled ahead of the guests to park near the bridge, lay out blankets and chairs and erect a long table in a quiet, shady spot beside the river. They carried baskets from Waltho’s car and set out a picnic lunch.
‘Tomas is on the way,’ Angelique said. She closed her phone and slid it into the pocket of her kaftan. After carefully placing glasses beside jugs of local wine, she reached into a canvas bag and took out a bouquet of lavender from the garden at La Maison du Paradis. Waltho filled a vase with water from the river, and Angelique arranged the blooms and moved them to the centre of the table.
Standing back to admire their efforts, Angelique asked, ‘So what are your thoughts on our guests?’
Waltho tilted his head to one side. ‘An interesting group,’ he replied.
‘Is that all?’
‘It’s too early to make assumptions or reason why people have travelled here.’ Waltho paused. ‘Everyone has a motive. Caroline is wealthy and bored, Fran is eager to learn, and the sisters want a relaxing holiday.’
‘Bridgette?’ Angelique raised an eyebrow.
‘Who knows.’
‘Ahmed?’
‘Angelique, you are too curious. It is not our place to judge the guests.’
‘I can’t help it.’ A slow smile formed on her face. She took a tortoiseshell clip from her pocket, and as she lifted her wrist to clip it into her hair, her bangles jingled.
‘Your hair is almost titian in the sunlight,’ Waltho said, ‘it’s quite beautiful.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’ Angelique poured them both a glass of wine and handed one to Waltho.
‘These are not questions I can answer; I don’t know these people, but perhaps in a few days, we will know more.’ Waltho sipped his wine. ‘They seem like a decent bunch, and I am happy they are providing me with the funds to continue this lifestyle.’
‘Don’t you mean so that you can start painting again?’
Waltho frowned. Angelique had a point. Lauren had been his driving force and delighted in his work. He knew in that moment, she’d have insisted that he spontaneously capture the image of Angelique’s halo of hair and commit the image to canvas. But Waltho hadn’t lifted a brush, opened his paints or set up his easel since Lauren’s death and hadn’t the slightest desire to do so.
‘You are one of the best artists in this area of France,’ Angelique persisted.
‘The area is full of artists.’
‘Not as good as you. If you painted again, you wouldn’t need cookery school guests; you could do what you originally planned and run art classes. Host painting courses in your beautiful home with like-minded people.’
‘I am happy with the way things are.’ Waltho put down his glass.
‘But you wouldn’t be paying a huge fee to a celebrity chef.’
Waltho looked towards the bridge. ‘Just leave it,’ he sighed. ‘I want this week to be successful and hope that by bringing a journalist here, we can plan and fill many more courses.’
Angelique knew better than to push Waltho further. He was a closed book. Not to be opened anytime soon.
‘Our guests have arrived,’ Waltho said, raising his hand to show Tomas where they were.
‘Let’s enjoy the afternoon,’ Angelique said, waving at the guests.
Waltho’s handsome face turned towards her, and he smiled. ‘Mais bien sûr,’ he replied, ‘but of course.’
They could see Fran marching ahead of the pack, heading down the pathway. Dressed in Lycra shorts, pink trainers and a racing-style vest, she wore huge pink sunglasses and held up both hands when she spotted Waltho and Angelique.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Fran called out. ‘Here we are!’
Sally followed, wearing jogging shorts, a T-shirt, and plimsols. She held her camera and pointed it towards the river to get a shot of the bridge.
Caroline, neat in white capri pants and a cotton blouse, was heard to call out to Sally, ‘I’ll get out of the way,’ she said, as though fearing to be caught in the photo.
‘I do love a picnic.’ Ahmed rubbed his hands together as he accompanied the expats and Bridgette.
In matching straw bonnets and summery dresses, Jeanette and Pearl agreed, ‘So do we!’
As they all arrived at the shady hollow, their eyes were wide when they saw the picnic that had been prepared.
‘Come, find a place to rest and help yourselves to food.’ Angelique handed out drinks, and Waltho asked if anyone needed insect repellent.
‘Over here!’ Fran yelled as she sprawled on a blanket. ‘The little blighters are nipping already.’ She lifted a leg and sprayed liberally.
Caroline sipped a glass of iced water. She watched as Sally helped herself to a crisp baguette and fill her plate with a selection of cheese.
‘Are you going to eat?’ Sally asked as she spooned soft Camembert onto the bread and took a bite. ‘This cheese is gorgeous.’
Caroline put her glass down and forked salad into a bowl. The mixed greens were tossed with herb oil, made in the morning class, and combined with Niçoise olives and tomatoes.
‘Crikey, you won’t last long on that,’ Sally said as she sipped wine, then scooped pâté and ham onto her plate.
‘There’s so much food,’ Caroline replied, ‘and I ate far too much at dinner last night. It’s very tempting to indulge and overeat.’
‘Isn’t that what we’re here for?’ Sally asked. ‘It’s a holiday too.’ Her journalist’s brain was whirring. Studying the type of people who paid for expensive courses like this made sense. Alluding to different characters in her writing spiced things up.
‘I don’t want to put on any weight.’ Caroline nibbled on a rocket leaf.
‘Why, have you got a weight problem?’ Sally swigged her wine. Her dart landed on the bull’s eye, and she saw Caroline shudder.
Quickly composing herself, Caroline replied, ‘No, I certainly haven’t.’ She was dismissive. ‘I’ve always kept in shape.’
Sally’s sixth sense told her that Caroline wasn’t being honest, and as she watched the woman move away, she wondered if she should follow up on the conversation. After all, weight loss stories sold too.
Waltho had placed folding chairs at the edge of the blankets, and glancing around to ensure she was alone, Caroline sat down. She didn’t feel like company. Peering over her sunglasses, Caroline bit into an olive. She studied the group, where Sally was chatting to the sisters, jotting down their remarks.
Biting into a vine tomato next, Caroline savoured the sweet, fruity flesh that had ripened under a warm Mediterranean sun. It was heaven and she knew she’d eat the lot if a bowl was before her. The cheese Sally was gorging was equally as tempting, and Caroline resisted the urge to leap up and fill her plate.
She had to stay strong.
The afternoon heat made Caroline drowsy, and her mind wandered to days long gone, when she’d first met Stanley. She’d been several sizes bigger, and a drunken tryst at university in Durham had ended with Caroline becoming pregnant.
One of the conditions you made when you reluctantly agreed to marry me was that I lose weight, Caroline thought. She knew that Stanley would never have agreed to marry her had her father not threatened to dismember him and throw him into the pit where he’d spent his entire working life at the coal face.
‘I’m going places, Caro,’ Stanley pleaded as he stood in the tiny bedroom at her parents’ home, ‘the last thing I need, as well as a child, is an overweight wife on my arm.’
Without sparing her a glance nor noting the tears that trickled down her plump cheeks, Stanley had run his fingers through his hair and admired his reflection. ‘I’m going into journalism and ultimately politics and need to be taken seriously. If you can’t take control of your weight, we’ll be a laughingstock.’
Caroline sighed as she opened her eyes and watched Sally pose the guests for a group photo. She’d tried to live up to Stanley’s expectations throughout her married life, but following their wedding, not only had she dramatically lost weight, she’d also lost the baby.
Caroline bit on her lip and felt a heaviness in her chest. A stillborn birth was in nature’s hands, the midwife had told her. She’d assured the bereft mother there was plenty of time for more children. In her heart, Caroline convinced herself that to become thin and not gain pregnancy weight, she’d denied her baby vital nutrition. This must have been the real cause of the stillbirth.
But by then, she was married to Stanley and living in London. Stanley had begun work as a reporter for The Times, and Caroline became the stay-at-home wife who tended to her husband’s every need. In time, she became pregnant again, and, despite Stanley’s, ‘Watch your weight, old gal, we don’t want you bloating up again,’ she’d had a healthy pregnancy.
Leo was a bouncing eight-pound baby.
Caroline finished her salad and resisted the urge to turn from the guests and lick the bowl clean of the delicious herb oil that shimmered on the surface. She was about to go for a stroll when she saw Waltho approaching.
‘May I?’ Waltho asked. He held a dish in his hands.
‘Yes, of course, do sit down.’
Caroline caught the sparkling glimmer in Waltho’s delicious eyes and felt a strange flutter. Was the man aware of his appeal, she wondered. Nervously, she sat straighter and crossed her legs.
‘I thought you might like some fruit.’ Waltho produced a linen napkin and held it out. ‘You’ve eaten very little?’
‘I’ve had sufficient, thank you.’ Caroline twisted the watch on her wrist and anxiously stared at the fruit. ‘Perhaps a slice of melon,’ she conceded, not wishing to offend.
‘The river is shallow.’ Waltho glanced towards the water. ‘The locals are worried about the fish.’
‘Hmm,’ Caroline licked her lips. The melon was sweet, the cold flesh refreshing.
‘So many months of hardly any rain,’ Waltho added as they watched a listless stream flow gently over rock and stones. ‘The riverbank is wilted and brown, and no one seems to know when the weather will break. It is the hottest July on record.’ He indicated for Caroline to eat more. ‘The berries are fresh, picked from the garden this morning.’
‘They’re perfect,’ Caroline agreed and nibbled on a blueberry.
‘I trust that the kitchen wasn’t too hot earlier?’
‘Surprisingly, the fans are effective; I was comfortable, thank you.’
Suddenly, Angelique clapped her hands. They glanced up as she announced their departure in fifteen minutes.
Caroline began to fold her napkin.
‘It’s a short lesson when you return,’ Waltho said, ‘and I hope the classes won’t be too tiring in the heat.’
‘We’re here to work, and the fans are coping,’ Caroline replied. ‘I see from our notes that we’re making pastry, no doubt we will enjoy some of these delicious berries in a tart with dinner.’
‘But make sure you relax after class,’ Waltho was insistent, ‘I want my guests to enjoy the house, gardens, and, of course, the pool.’
‘Not for me,’ Caroline winced, ‘I can’t swim.’
A memory flashed of a drunken Stanley playfully pushing Caroline into a pool at Quinta do Logo. The Portuguese lifeguard had scolded Stanley after rescuing Caroline, choking and terrified from the deep water and she’d never been near water again.
Before Waltho could ask why Caroline couldn’t swim, Sally let out a cheer and several guests began to clap.
‘What on earth…’ Caroline turned to see what was causing all the commotion, and to her horror, she saw Fran striding barefoot across the grass in a baby-pink tankini. Her hair was soaking wet, and her skin glistened.
‘Sid wanted a picture of me posing by the water,’ Fran giggled as she got closer, ‘I had a hell of a job keeping my phone steady and not slipping off a rock.’
‘Looks like you fell in?’ Sally laughed and held out a towel.
‘No, dear, I put my bits and pieces on the bank, then had a good old splash about to cool me down.’ Fran had drawn level with Caroline, and droplets sprayed onto Caroline’s Capri pants as she towelled her hair.
‘Oh, really!’ Caroline exclaimed.
‘Keep your hair on, Caro, the water is clean.’ Fran gave a beaming smile, then patted the bulge of white tummy peeping out of her tankini. ‘You should try it.’
‘No. Thank you.’
Caroline stepped back and rubbed her fingers on her trousers as though ridding them of debris. Moving away from Waltho without glancing in anyone’s direction, she picked up her pace and made her way to the bridge, where the cool air of the air-conditioned minibus welcomed her. Settling comfortably into her seat, Caroline stared out of the window. The guests had clustered into groups, happily chatting as they returned.
‘They all have such confidence,’ Caroline whispered, and closing her eyes to block the image, she turned her head away.