I sit down next to him. ‘Then let’s battle this first. You can’t marry someone on an empty stomach. Some bread maybe?Un café?I have fruit; we have to make sure you have energy.’
He looks at me and nods.
‘Where is Odette now?’ I ask.
‘Upstairs.’ We all hear glass breaking and look up. ‘Yes, that is her,’ he confirms.
‘Let’s go and talk to her,’ I say, unsure why I’ve suggested this.
‘I cannot see her before the marriage. It is tradition,’ he replies.
‘We can work around that.’ I turn to the kitchen where the girls and Miguel stand there waiting for instructions. ‘Jess, canyou put two slices of bread onto toast? Maybe we can start prepping the herbs, finely chopped please. Get on peeling the garlic. Zara, you good with dicing the chorizo?’
‘YES CHEF!’ they all shout in unison. I don’t know why Miguel salutes me like he’s at sea though.
I laugh. ‘Chloe, you’re with me,’ I tell her. We climb the wooden staircase to a room upstairs at the end of a corridor.
‘Why do you need me here?’ Chloe whispers.
‘Because I’m not sure I can handle an angry French bride on my own.’But I also just like having you next to me despite all the garlic that needs peeling downstairs. We reach a hallway with a large wooden door; inside, a woman is shouting angrily in French, the sort of words I once heard a tramp use in Montmartre just before he peed himself and threw a bottle of brandy at me.
Fabien walks up to the door tentatively and knocks. ‘Ma choue… the caterers are here. They want to?—’
‘Mon dieu. Oh, super…where did they come from? Now you are telling me we are going to be eating McDo on the rocks,’ she shrieks. ‘Has he come dressed like a clown?’
Chloe and I look at each other, trying not to laugh.
‘Odette, please…He is a nice English man, he has offered to help.’
I step forward. ‘Madame, je m’appelle Ben. Pourrions-nous en discuter un petit peu?’
She stops to hear my voice, my attempt to speak French and offer help. I hear her come to the door. ‘I thought you were English.’
‘I am but I have worked in many countries and trained in various cookery schools. I have a restaurant in London,’ I tell her.
I hear a noise like she may have backed onto the door and is now sitting on the floor. ‘Sit with me,’ she says. ‘I do not wantto see Fabien. We talk through the door.’ We all look at each other and opt to sit in the hallway. It’s very cosy. ‘We had such beautiful plans. We came here and tested the menus in January and I can’t believe they would cancel like this. This day is going so wrong. I bet they steal our money too.’
‘Let me put it right,’ I say through the wooden door. ‘Can I tell you what I had planned for today?’
‘Racontez-moi. Allez-y,’ she says.
‘I have some canapés – I have some beautiful Serrano ham, Manchego, olives and bruschetta, beautiful fresh figs, gazpacho shots,’ I tell her. ‘After that, I have a seafood course, some clams cooked in wine, someflao, which is a traditional Ibizan cheese tart, and I thought we would go traditional with a big paella for all to share. Everything is being cooked fresh today, bought from the markets. My associate says thegambasare excellent,’ I say nervously. I am not one to create Michelin-star tasting menus, my style has always been huge platters being shared family-style. People eating with their hands, swabbing big chunks of bread in broth and oils, aunties reaching over and stacking plates high.I hope that’s enough.Maybe I should have run this through with them before I agreed to this.
Odette is silent for a while before she responds. ‘It sounds perfect. I thought you might be serving my guests fish with chips as you are English.’
I’ll forgive her French snobbery for now because my fish and chips are bloody marvellous.
‘You see,ma choue, they are all here. The day will be fine. I love you so much,’ Fabien says, resting his forehead against the door. We may have to get him some cucumber for his eyes too.
‘Is your mother still in pink? She is going to clash with my bridesmaids, Fabien.’
‘Odette…be reasonable. Her suitcase is gone. She has none of her clothes,’ he pleads.
‘FABIEN!’ she shrieks.
Chloe and I recoil from the volume of the noise that has managed to travel through the oak door. She shrieks a lot in French and I hear many swear words.
‘Odette, please.Ma choue, ma choue…’
