On a table in the shade on the terrace, Fran sat with Bridgette and Sally, tucking into her breakfast. The women were thoughtful as they remembered Angelique’s revelations at dinner the previous evening.
‘You could have knocked me down with a feather,’ Fran said, shaking her head. ‘It just shows how it does no good to jump to conclusions.’
‘I was convinced that Angelique and Waltho were together.’ Bridgette buttered a croissant. ‘It never occurred to me that it wasn’t the case.’
‘It’s not important who they partner; the saddest thing is that Waltho lost his greatest love.’ Sally sipped a black coffee, cradling the cup with both hands.
‘And now we know how Angelique came to work here,’ Bridgette said. ‘She was an estate agent who showed them around this house when Waltho and Lauren first came to Poutaloux-Beauvoir.’
‘An agent immobilier,’ Sally added, ‘it was her job to do viewings on properties for sale.’
‘It must have cost a fortune to do this place up.’ Fran stated the obvious and reached for a slice of toast.
‘Lauren planted lavender everywhere,’ Bridgette said, remembering Angelique’s explanation. ‘She dressed in the colour and even wore the perfume.’
The three women fell silent. They remembered how Angelique explained that Lauren became unwell. Her cervical cancer was stage four. It had spread rapidly, and there was nothing the doctors could have done.
‘Ghastly,’ Bridgette muttered.
‘Tragic.’ Fran shook her head.
‘But thank goodness Waltho carried on,’ Bridgette said, ‘and it appears to be his mission to make La Maison du Paradis his final love. In Lauren’s name.’
Fran buttered more toast. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t run art classes,’ she said. ‘Art must still be his passion.’
Sally reached out to top up her coffee. ‘But Angelique says he hasn’t been near his studio since Lauren died.’
‘Such a waste,’ the women all agreed as the morning sun rose over the garden, and another perfect day at La Maison du Paradis began.
Heat bounced from the terrace, and Fran fidgeted as her legs, encased in pink shorts, felt the warmth on her pale skin.
‘I think it’s time we made a move,’ Sally glanced at her watch, ‘class begins in ten minutes.’
‘Pasta making.’ Bridgette smiled. ‘This should be fun. I’ve never made it before; it’s always from a supermarket in my kitchen.’
‘Daniel says every decent chef should make their own pasta.’ Fran eased to her feet. ‘Let’s go and see what sort of mess I can make of this session.’ She reached for a lipstick to smooth pink gloss on her lips.
Bridgette marched ahead and smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m sure you will be fine, Fran,’ she said, ‘and whatever concoction you create will be delicious at dinner tonight.’
* * *
After breakfast, guests assembled in the kitchen and sat around the table. Clean aprons lay on the table, and as folders were opened and notebooks produced, they heard Tomas say the day threatened to be hot again.
‘You must drink,’ he said, raising a glass of water. ‘Please keep hydrated.’
‘This looks interesting,’ Fran commented to Ahmed as she picked up a recipe sheet and glanced at the ingredients. ‘What do you think that is?’ Fran pointed to a curious machine. Silver and square-shaped, it had a long handle and metal rollers.
‘A pasta machine,’ Ahmed replied. ‘I’ve never dared to use one.’
‘Nor me, I bulk-buy my pasta in Aldi. My Sid loves a good spag bol.’
Daniel came into the kitchen wearing a dazzling white chef’s jacket. Despite the shadowy bags beneath his eyes, he was alert and charming as he greeted the guests. To everyone’s delight, Waltho followed and, after taking a glass of water from Tomas, began to speak.
‘Good morning,’ he said brightly, ‘I have good news and bad.’
‘Oh heck,’ Fran grimaced, ‘I hope everything is alright?’
‘Well, the bad news is that today, we are in for another hot morning.’ Waltho paused as everyone groaned. ‘But the weather forecast indicates that the air will become cooler, and there is even a possibility of light rain.’
‘Hurrah!’ Everyone cheered.
‘I never thought I’d be cheering for rain.’ Fran turned to Ahmed and held her hand to high-five.
‘It would be most welcome,’ Ahmed grinned.
‘But back to today.’ Waltho took a drink. ‘Chef will teach you the rudiments of pasta making.’ He looked around at the guests. ‘The process is magical, as you are about to learn. Enjoy your morning, and we have a lovely surprise for you this afternoon,’ he added, then disappeared into the garden.
‘Good to see Waltho so cheery,’ Fran whispered to Ahmed.
‘Okay, everyone, listen up,’ Daniel said. ‘Before you begin any cookery session, you must set up the required equipment and prepare your components.’
The guests studied the range of utensils and ingredients that Tomas had laid out.
‘This is called “mise en place”, which means “everything in its place.”’ Daniel swept his hand over the table. ‘It is thought that this practice started with the legendary chef, Auguste Escoffier, who pioneered French cuisine and the system of a modern brigade found in great kitchens globally.’
‘I have his cookery book in my collection,’ Ahmed added.
Daniel reached out and selected an egg. ‘One egg for each person,’ he said, then picked up a measure of flour, tipped it neatly onto the table and sprinkled it with salt. ‘Break the egg in the centre and, using your fingers, knead it into the flour.’
The guests were fascinated as Daniel worked the dough into a smooth, workable ball. Next, he placed it to one side and carefully covered it with a damp cloth. ‘Let the gluten relax for a while,’ he said.
Fran thought that she was melting. Was it possible that the air was muggier than ever? She felt herself drift into a daydream as she stared at Daniel’s covered dough ball and visualised it relaxing beneath the cloth, lounging on a sunbed, with dark glasses and a sunshade over its smooth round mound.
‘Why do you need to do that?’ Ahmed asked, stirring Fran from her daydream.
‘A good question.’ Daniel stared at a sleepy-faced Fran, ‘I’m glad to see that most of you are paying attention. It will make the pasta more manageable as we roll it to the required thickness and shape.’
As Sally clicked away with her camera, capturing the initial stage of pasta making, Daniel and Tomas weighed flour for everyone and told the class to begin. A little while later, with their dough balls relaxed, the guests were split into groups, and Fran found herself alone. She watched as the groups gathered around pasta machines. With one guest guiding, another turning the handle and a third waiting to receive, they made sheets of pasta before cutting them into the desired shapes and placing them to dry.
‘What about me?’ Fran asked when Daniel turned to face her.
‘I have something special for you. Follow me.’ Daniel strolled ahead. He carried dough in a bowl.
Fran followed, tossing her dough ball from one hand to the other and wondered what the chef had in store. Sadly, it was becoming clear that Daniel didn’t really like Fran. Perhaps he thought she fooled around too much? Now, she was alone in the adjacent kitchen with him and as Fran nervously scratched at the skin on her folded arms, she determined she would prove him wrong.
Daniel floured the table’s surface, then, taking his dough, began twirling it with his fingers. ‘Knead it like this,’ he instructed.
With a rolling pin, he began to methodically roll, turning the ever-increasing shape as he worked. Fran hopped from one foot to the other and wondered what part she would play in this tutorial. It wasn’t long before she found out.
Suddenly, Daniel folded his pasta and dumped it in the bowl. ‘Now, I want you to do the same with yours until the pasta covers this table, and you can see your fingers through it.’
‘Eh?’ Fran looked puzzled.
‘You will make a savoury pasta roll by spreading this sauce on your pasta.’ He handed Fran a jar of mushroom and olive paste made during the steriliser class. ‘You will roll your pasta and wrap it in a cloth, then place it in the steamer.’ Daniel waved his hand towards a long-lidded container on the stove. ‘You have the recipe in your folder.’
‘Well, I’m not sure…’
‘I am entrusting you with this, Fran, and I know you can do it.’
Fran was unaware that Daniel was determined to test her passion for cooking, and he’d singled her out for a difficult task. In his heart, he wanted to help her, but she’d have to prove that she was worth it.
Daniel made everything sound simple, and Fran nodded and ran her hot fingers over her apron. She resolved to make him proud.
‘Yes, Chef,’ she said as Daniel strolled away. Taking her dough and rolling pin, Fran began to sing and bounce on the balls of her feet as she floured the table. ‘You ain’t nothing but a hound dog…’
* * *
Some considerable time later, Fran was gasping.
The kitchen was like a furnace, her dough a sticky, gooey mess. Peeling it away from her perspiring hands, Fran thought she might cry. She had been so keen to impress Daniel and to make her dish the most successful of the day, but he’d left her alone in the kitchen with no idea how to remedy the situation, and she was lost for words and furious with the chef.
To make matters worse, everyone had completed their dishes and gone for a pool dip with no notion that Fran was failing miserably.
She went over to the sink and washed her hands. While she was drying them, Fran noticed a small storage room at the back of the kitchen. Making sure that no one was about, she crept in.
The room was stacked with tinned goods and boxes, and appeared to double up as Daniel’s office. Recipe sheets lay on a printer beside a black marker pen, and a laptop sat on a table. Fran was about to retreat when she noticed a clean white jacket hanging on the back of the door. On the front pocket, neat embroidery spelt out Daniel’s name. Without pausing to think about her actions, Fran took the marker pen and, turning the jacket, began to draw.
Moments later, she was back in the kitchen, staring at her gooey dough and, still furious with Daniel, wondering what she could do with it.
‘Need some help?’ Like a knight in shining chef’s wear, Tomas walked into the room. ‘Quelle situation difficile,’ he murmured and shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own, laisse moi aider.’
Whatever Tomas had said, Fran hadn’t a clue. But the handsome young man smiled at her and offered to put things right as he pushed back his sleeves and cleared the table of Fran’s catastrophe.
‘Tomas, I think I love you,’ Fran whispered as she watched him weigh out flour and hand her an egg.
‘Mais bien sûr.’ He shrugged. ‘Now, we work together.’
Fran was mesmerised as her newly relaxed dough spread thinly over the table. She placed two fingers underneath and beamed at Tomas. ‘Look!’ she said. ‘It’s paper thin and perfect.’
‘You are a great chef.’ Tomas gave her a wink as he reached for a palette knife and showed her how to spread the filling.
Standing side by side, they rolled the dough into a textbook shape. Tomas sliced it into sections, then showed Fran how to wrap it in a cloth and place it in the steamer.
‘Okay, it needs one hour,’ he said, fiddling with his watch. ‘Leave it with me, and you go and relax.’
Fran was about to throw her arms around Tomas to thank him, but Sally had come into the kitchen and, seeing her friend, Fran dusted off her hands.
‘There you are!’ Sally said. ‘I’ve been sent to find you. Everyone thought you’d gone for a lie-down, but you weren’t in your room.’
Fran was about to answer, but Tomas interrupted.
‘I have been watching her cook,’ he said. ‘Elle est très bien.’ Making a sign of approval, Tomas touched his fingers to his lips.
‘Eh?’ Fran looked anxious. ‘In English, please, Tomas.’
Sally laughed, ‘He says you are very good, and I don’t doubt him if you’ve spent all this time making your pasta dish.’
‘Well…’
‘I hope we’re going to sample it tonight,’ Sally continued. ‘I’ve made a total balls-up of my ravioli, but there’s no doubt that Caroline’s cannelloni will save the day.’
‘Is it that good?’ Fran asked.
Sally nodded. ‘I thought Daniel was going to have an orgasm over it.’
Fran lowered her voice. ‘Well, you’d know all about that,’ she laughed.
‘Come on, Waltho has arranged a mystery trip,’ Sally said, wiping flour from Fran’s cheek. ‘Let’s get you tidied up, and then we can enjoy the afternoon.’
‘Are you coming too?’ Fran asked Tomas.
But he shook his head and, reaching into a fridge, took a cold beer. ‘No, I have the afternoon off and am babysitting a mushroom pasta.’
Unable to help herself, Fran stood on her toes and reached out to pull Tomas into a hug. ‘You’re my hero,’ she said. Then, tossing her apron on the table, hurried to catch up with Sally. ‘A mystery trip?’ she asked, ‘I like the sound of that!’