‘Odette.Parlez-moi de Fabien?’ I ask her, trying to calm some of the noise. ‘Expliquez-moi toutes les bonnes choses.’
She goes silent for a moment. ‘He is… funny,gentil, very sweet,’ she murmurs through the door. ‘There is a way he loves me that is like no other. He loves me all the time.’
‘Depuis toujours,’ Fabien says, putting a hand to the door and I look over at Chloe to translate, mouthing the wordforever.
‘I can go into town with your mother and sort something else?’ Chloe intervenes, placing a hand on Fabien’s back.
‘Who are you?’ Odette asks abruptly as she hears a female voice.
‘I am Ben’s…catering assistant,’ Chloe says, stepping in tentatively. ‘Please rest assured that we will try and make your day as perfect as possible.’ I reach down and graze my fingers along hers. ‘It will be a perfect day because you have each other.’ She looks at me as she says that and my breath catches in my throat.
‘Et le gâteau?’ she asks.
I widen my eyes at Chloe.I also had to make a cake?
Fabien senses my shock and shakes his head.
Please don’t tell the bride there is no cake. It will be the nail in the coffin for this wedding. I should have thought of this. What the hell do I do?I have no time to do a massive three-tiered confection. I don’t have the tools or the dowelling. I had a chocolate tart planned, maybe I can ice hearts on it, load it up with fruit and sparklers? That feels flat. I have a large wheel of cheese I could put some flowers on.
‘Une croquembouche, bien sûr…’ I say.
‘You can make acroquembouche?’ she asks.
‘Oui. Une petite croquembouche,’ I say blankly. I can but Miguel’s going to have to sprint to find some fucking butter.
‘Thenparfait. Thank you. You are perfection.’
I’m not really. I’m actually quite stressed. I’m remembering why I needed a break from my restaurant. Then, Chloe’s hand slips into mine and squeezes it tightly. I squeeze hers back.Let’s do this.
35
CHLOE
I’ve seen people attempt to makecroquembouchesonBake Offand I tell you, those things never work out, but there’s been something about Ben all day that is so determined. It’s clear he’s going to follow through with his promises for this wedding even if he has to beat thatchouxto death and clean every clam by hand. Such is Ben, the perfectionist, someone who wants to get things right and do right by the people around him. But it’s also chef Ben. He’s an angrier version of Ben who doesn’t listen, who has a singular focus. But also Ben who can speak French and talk angry brides down into a calm stupor because of the magic in hiscroquembouche.
‘MIGUEL! I needed those figs yesterday. Where are they?’ his voice echoes through the kitchen.
‘I am coming, chef. Calm your pretty panties down,’ Miguel sings back, trying to diffuse Ben’s stress.
I look through to the kitchen and watch him mop his brow on the sleeve of his T-shirt, standing over a counter, tapping the underside of some bread and smelling it. It’s a careful, nurturing action until he spots something on the other side of the kitchen.‘Can someone take the cheese out before it becomes fondue!’ I see Jess pick up the platters and scamper away.
‘Yeah, this bit wasn’t on the flyer either, was it?’ Zara says next to me, working through her washing-up duty.
‘Ah, yes – you will also become part of a ninja stealth catering team that will save a French couple’s wedding.’ I laugh. ‘It was in the small print.’
It’s been a day of absolute chaos but we’ve all played our part. Miguel has zipped around the island buying butter from every supermarket while I tagged along to buy a tasteful light-blue number for Fabien’s mother. We have chopped, we have styled out canapés, we have poured glasses of champagne, and we’ve put Bella to good use, sending her upstairs to contour the bride and apply her fake eyelashes. Fabien’s uncle even returned to us in a Pacha T-shirt and with a love bite on his neck, but we won’t talk about that.
‘Was your wedding like this?’ I ask Zara as we stand at the counter, overlooking the guests sitting at their tables, impeccably decorated with white bougainvillea and roses. Fairy lights make the clifftop twinkle, the sweet sound of guitars serenade the guests.
‘God no, nothing as classy as this. I doubt they’re all going to get on the dancefloor later and do the “YMCA”,’ she says. ‘Bella told me the bride’s in rental Dior, that’s why she’s wearing a tablecloth as a bib to eat her paella.’
I laugh, holding onto Zara’s arm.That’s what that is. I thought it was fashion. Now the sun has set, the ceremony has taken place and the photographs have been taken, the guests eat and I now get why Ben cooks the way he does. It must be a nice feeling to deliver all that satisfaction, to see people gather around your food and notice the collective joy it gives them. They eat paella out of big metal pans; the prawns are so large I can see their little beady eyes from here. I hope everyoneappreciates the lemon wedges that I cut for that dish. From where we stand, I can see family members laughing, sharing stories, breaking bread. And at a very small table with the best view of the sea are Fabien (with his trousers on at last) and Odette, who is classically very beautiful even if she scares me just a little bit. Most importantly, they are calm, happy and married. I didn’t understand the ceremony as it was mostly in French but I didn’t need to in order to understand their love and observe the joy which seems to be the theme of the day in more ways than one.
‘Can I tell you something, just between the two of us, because I have to tell someone?’ I say to Zara. Despite all the chaos, I realise I’m also holding on to the excitement of the phone call this morning. I haven’t had a beat to share the news, to digest it.
‘Sure thing,’ she says, stopping for a moment, curious.
‘I had a phone call this morning with an architect in London, she’s from a practice it would be my dream to work for back home. Zaha Hadid, have you heard of her? She’s a legend. The technical director I spoke to had heard I’m leaving my previous practice and she wants to meet as soon as I get back. She knows my work. I’m completely?—’
