Caroline had hardly slept. There wasn’t a breath of air in her room, and despite the luxurious cotton sheet that she lay under, she’d felt hot and anxious for most of the night. Flinging the sheet to one side, she’d reached for the hem of her La Perla nightgown and pulled it over her head. Lying naked in the dark, with her windows open wide, the sounds of the night seemed amplified, making sleep impossible.
Cicadas buzzed in the backdrop of darkness, and an owl gave a long, loud hoot, perched on a branch overlooking its domain. Caroline wondered if the creature was signalling the presence of a predator or communicating with a mate.
Whatever it was up to, she wished it would stop.
Next door, Fran’s snores almost made the wall between them shudder, and if that wasn’t bad enough, a cat was yowling beneath her window, and another had joined in. If only the moggies would move on and sort out their territorial dispute somewhere else!
It was no use. Trying to sleep was hopeless, and Caroline slipped out of bed and reached for her dressing gown. The silk felt wonderfully cool on her skin, and, taking a bottle of water from her bedside, she stepped barefoot onto the balcony.
Outside, the air was oppressive. Despite a clear, starry sky, the night hung like a heavy cloak, almost suffocating the world below. The cats had started up again, and Caroline moved to the railing. She held the bottle and was about to shower the noisy creatures when she realised that a figure was walking through the garden.
Caroline squinted and tilted her head to get a better look.
It was a man. Soundless, his steps were deliberate until he came to the lavender-lined path. She watched as he crouched down, then, breaking a sprig, held it to his face.
‘How strange,’ Caroline whispered as the moon appeared from behind a cloud and lit up the stranger. ‘Waltho!’ Caroline gasped.
Waltho straightened but still held the lavender; his head was bent, and Caroline felt sure she could see his shoulders shaking. After a few moments, she saw him reach into a pocket. A sudden flash of white and Waltho wiped his eyes with a handkerchief. Then, as the moon disappeared, he vanished into the darkness.
Caroline was mystified. She’d forgotten all about the yowling cats and noisy night creatures and, sitting down, held the water to her lips and took a long drink. She remembered her dinner conversation with Waltho. He was a charming host and made excellent conversation, and she’d learned that he’d studied at the Royal College of Art in the seventies, in London, when the style was still in the Hockney era. Caroline was fascinated and, during the meal, learned that Waltho’s parents were from the Caribbean, of the Windrush generation, and he’d grown up in the East End.
Caroline instantly understood his working-class roots but didn’t reveal her own humble beginnings as a miner’s daughter in a pit village in the Northeast.
That was a fact she never revealed.
Waltho was proud of his parents and their determination that he should have a better life. His mother sketched scenes of the island, and when she saw that her young son’s drawings were better than her own, she encouraged his talent and pushed him to do well.
Caroline was fascinated as she listened to Waltho.
‘My parents worked around the clock to finance my education,’ he told her. ‘When I graduated from the Royal College of Art, I knew all my hard work had been worth it.’
‘Why was that?’ she’d asked.
‘They said that it was the proudest day of their lives.’
Waltho’s eyes had softened, and Caroline remembered how his lips had fallen into a warm smile as he reminisced.
Caroline loved art. She’d spent many solitary hours in galleries and at exhibitions over the years as a distraction from her day-to-day. She’d been keen to know why Waltho’s style was more classical when he must have been learning at the start of the Young British Artists Movement.
His reply had been simple.
‘I never got involved in the wild partying then, and I suppose I didn’t hold with the artist’s use of shock tactics in their work.’ Waltho explained that he’d taken the contemporary route out of respect for his parents.
She learned that he’d achieved moderate recognition in his gallery and shown many artists’ works over the years, including a collection of vases inspired by the young and exciting Grayson Perry. Waltho spoke of fellow students and name-dropped those who’d climbed the art world ladder to international success.
‘I was lucky,’ Waltho said. ‘I enjoyed doing something I loved.’
Caroline remembered questioning Waltho about La Maison du Paradis and why he’d upped sticks and moved to France. Now, as she sat, listening to the sounds of the night, Caroline sensed that Waltho was carrying a hidden sadness.
A burden seemed to weigh him down, and, at the time he’d merely smiled and diverted the conversation. The man’s personal life felt almost as private as her own.
‘But what about you?’ he’d asked. ‘Tell me about your life and why you decided to come on this course?’
Caroline grimaced. She knew that she’d waffled worthlessly about life in Kensington with Stanley, and made pointless small talk without giving away the reality of her current position nor the anxieties that plagued her.
Some things were not for sharing.
A cockerel crowed far away and the blackness was lifting. Light slowly appeared in rays of pink and purple, and Caroline realised that dawn was approaching. That special moment when a new day feels like a gift. The creatures were quiet, and the atmosphere felt serene. Trance-like, Caroline stared as the scene unfolded before her eyes.
‘By heck, Caro – what a sunrise, it’s a blinder!’
Caroline almost leapt from her chair as Fran’s voice boomed out.
‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ Fran asked.
Stepping onto her balcony, she was inches away.
‘Hardly,’ Caroline snapped.
‘Aye, it was hot, wasn’t it? I’ve got a pillow spray that helps me; you can have a squirt if you like?’
‘No, thank you.’ Caroline’s nostrils flared as she grabbed her water bottle. The last thing she needed was a squirt of whatever horrible concoction Fran used to ease insomnia.
Caroline was angry.
Her moment of calm had been interrupted, and this wretched woman even plagued the early hours. Before she could stop herself, she lashed out. ‘It was your snores that kept me awake,’ Caroline hissed, ‘and I’ve not had a wink of sleep since I’ve been here!’
Not waiting for a response, Caroline gathered her gown and swept past Fran, whose mouth had fallen open.
‘I’m s— so sorry,’ Fran muttered.
But Caroline had gone.
* * *
The kitchen at La Maison du Paradis sparkled in the daylight. With the door open and sunlight streaming in, surfaces shone, and pots and pans shimmered. Clean white aprons lay in place settings alongside carefully measured ingredients in pottery containers and precisely laid-out equipment.
‘Have you seen Daniel?’ Angelique asked Tomas as she checked that everything was ready. With her vigilant eyes, she straightened a knife and polished a spoon.
‘Non,’ Tomas yawned, ‘maybe the heat is getting to him. Il fait déjà tellement chaud.’
‘Yes, I know it is very hot already, but if the guests can put up with it, so can you and Daniel.’ Angelique glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Now, please, go and find him; we can’t have Chef turning up late.’
Tomas shrugged and rolled his eyes as he walked away. It seemed he wasn’t the only one to have had a late night and he wondered where Chef had gotten to. He certainly hadn’t gone with Tomas to a bar in the village where drinks and music had lasted until the early hours.
Waltho came into the kitchen and looked around. Walking to the door, he asked, ‘Is there a problem?’ Tilting his head to investigate the garden, he expected to see Tomas and Daniel picking herbs.
‘I hope not.’ Angelique stared at the clock again. ‘But Chef is on the missing list, and I’ve sent Tomas to find him.’
‘I’m sure he’s on his way,’ Waltho said. He watched Angelique scrutinise everything on the table, ready for the guests. ‘Day three of the course, how do you think it’s going?’
‘Okay, the guests seem happy and I am sure they are learning from Daniel.’
‘Do you think they are enjoying the activities?’
‘Probably more than the cooking.’ Angelique smiled.
‘The trip today will be interesting.’ Waltho leaned on a counter. ‘Montmorillon is such a special place.’
‘The macaron shop and patisserie are favourites for me. Perhaps you will buy me chocolates?’
Waltho chuckled. ‘Perhaps I will. You work so hard and deserve a treat.’
They looked up as guests arrived, and Angelique indicated for everyone to take their place. ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ she said, ‘Chef will be along presently.’
Bridgette plonked herself beside Fran and placed her folder on the table. Reaching for her pen, she opened her notebook. ‘This should be good,’ Bridgette said, ‘have you made macarons before?’
‘I’d never heard of them until I came here.’ Fran looked around the kitchen. ‘I thought they were a fancy by Mr Kipling.’
Bridgette noted that Fran seemed distracted and wasn’t her usual cheery self. In a plain navy dress, even her clothing seemed subdued, with not a trace of animal print nor cerise in sight.
‘Is everything alright, my dear?’ Bridgette asked.
Fran sighed, ‘Not really. I seem to have kept half the house awake with my snoring last night.’
‘Really?’ Bridgette looked puzzled, ‘I didn’t hear anything and slept like a baby. Who’ve you upset?’
‘Oh … no one in particular.’
‘Let me guess.’ Bridgette nodded. ‘Caroline, by any chance?’
‘Well, yes. Caroline says she hasn’t had a wink of sleep since she arrived because of me. I feel terrible about it.’
‘What nonsense, the woman has a tongue in her head. She has only to ask Angelique for earplugs or an herbal knock-out tablet; she’s sure to keep a supply.’
‘I can’t continue to keep her awake and think I’d better sleep in the garden tonight.’
‘You certainly will not. Don’t worry, we’ll find a solution as the day goes on.’ Bridgette tugged on Fran’s dress and lowered her voice, ‘And for goodness’ sake, get changed before we go on our trip. Your wonderful flamboyant outfits are the highlight of everyone’s day.’
Before Fran could reply, Tomas entered the kitchen, followed by a bleary-eyed Daniel.
‘Another one who looks like they didn’t get any sleep,’ Bridgette whispered.
‘Oh heck, did I keep Chef awake too?’
Bridgette patted Fran’s knee, and as Daniel rang his bell, they both sat up to attention.
‘Good morning, everyone,’ Daniel began. His hair was damp, and he looked tired as he ran his fingers through the thick black fringe, pushing it away from his face. ‘Today, we learn about French macarons. A great delicacy in this country. In England, they are mistaken for a macaroon.’ He emphasised the word, and his eyes travelled the length of the table, studying faces to ensure he had everyone’s attention. ‘A macaroon is a dense coconut-flavoured mixture, but more of that later.’
‘Where’s Sally?’ Fran whispered and nudged Bridgette, who shrugged.
Before Bridgette could reply, Daniel shot Fran an angry glance. He’d heard her whisper. Not wishing to get in any more trouble, Fran held a finger to her lips and nodded.
‘Unlike the macarons we will sample this afternoon, we will begin with the better-known Paris macaron.’ Daniel picked up a water bottle and drank the contents as though he’d been parched in a desert for days.
‘Hangover,’ Bridgette muttered with a firm nod of her head.
Tomas held out a serving dish, and Daniel selected a macaron.
‘Look at this,’ he said, holding the macaron high for everyone to see. ‘In various pastel colours and flavours, it is a perfectly formed almond meringue disc, uniform in size and sandwiched with a ganache filling.’ With a finger, he circled the smooth surface. ‘This is strawberry in flavour, but you will make many different types today.’
Tomas held out another dish and selected a tiny almond cookie.
‘As you can see, Tomas is showing us a version of an almond pastry, baked until pale brown and resembling a small cookie. Many patisseries in France serve this style of macaron, and the recipe is a closely guarded secret.’ Daniel reached out. He picked one up, studied it and took a bite. ‘Delicious,’ he announced. ‘The recipe is never written down but passed on by word of mouth from generation to generation.’
‘Blimey, gawd knows what my recipe would end up as,’ Fran giggled, ‘I’d never remember the ingredients.’
Daniel flashed another look that could kill, and Fran replaced her finger to zip her lips. Picking up her pencil, she made notes.
With his hands behind his back, Daniel started to pace the length of the room.
‘Here we go…’ Bridgette whispered.
‘Catherine de Medici’s chef was said to have introduced the macaron to France, but I think this is a myth.’
‘What are your own thoughts?’ Ahmed piped up.
Daniel stopped his pacing. ‘A good question; someone is paying attention.’ He smiled at Ahmed. ‘In the 1700s, two Carmelite nuns sought asylum during the French Revolution, and to pay for their housing, they baked macarons and sold them. They were known as the “Macaron Sisters.”’
‘Sounds like a pop group,’ Fran whispered.
‘I’m sure the Nolan Sisters have nothing to worry about,’ Bridgette replied.
Daniel glared at Fran again. ‘In these times, the macarons were plain with no filling or flavouring.’ Daniel ran his eyes along the line of guests. ‘But, in the 1930s, pastry chefs began to add fillings and spice, sometimes liqueurs.’
‘Now we’re talking.’ Bridgette glanced at a bottle of Crème de Cassis alongside Cointreau and green Chartreuse.
‘Many famous bakers have claimed to have invented the macaron,’ Daniel said, ‘and later, we will visit the oldest macaron bakery in Montmorillon. Their traditional family recipe has remained unchanged for over one hundred and fifty years.’
‘Let’s hope they wrote the recipe down,’ Bridgette commented.
‘It is a recipe that they will never divulge,’ Daniel said, ‘but I am sure you will find the visit interesting.’ He stopped and picked up his bell. ‘Now, you have many macarons to make before we leave. Let’s bake!’