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e car, he had made his way to the restaurant, intending to do nothing more than order himself a cup of what he anticipated would be execrable coffee. But when he saw the meal the two men at an adjacent table were eating, his interest had been sufficiently aroused for him to order the same dish.
The sauce, although clumsy and unrefined, intrigued him; the vegetables were not the usual soggy overcooked English affair he had expected, but crisp and full of flavour, the meat, although far from an expensive cut, betraying an awareness of at least some knowledge of what was and was not good meat.
He was interested enough to ask if he could speak to the chef. Solly Bernstein was too astonished to stop him. But when Ben discovered that Henri was actually offering him—him!—the chance to train in one of France’s most famous restaurants, he thought at first that his brain was playing a cruel joke on him.
Once the euphoria had worn off, though, he knew that it would be impossible for him to accept. How would his family manage without him? The wages he earned would be no more than a pittance, Henri had told him that, but Ben knew that there were many hundreds who would gladly have paid for the chance to learn from such a master.
How could he live in Paris? He couldn’t even speak French.
Surprisingly, it had been his mother who had changed his mind, who had insisted that this was his chance and that he must take it; who had reminded him that she was his mother and not his responsibility.
He had been full of doubts at first… not just about his family’s ability to manage without him, but doubts that he could live up to the promise his mentor had claimed to see in him. What if Henri was wrong and he ended up being sent home in disgrace?
‘Listen,’ Sarah Bernstein told him when he confided his worries to her, ‘what problems can this French cuisine give you? You learned how to make my chicken soup, didn’t you?’
Ben smiled slightly, remembering that comment. Sarah lived in New York now. She had moved there after her husband died to live with David and his family. David was a doctor and Ben still kept in touch with the family.
Henri had sold the Paris restaurant after a spectacular—and very costly—quarrel with his cousin and partner Fabian, and had now opened a new restaurant in Provence. In the catering business, it was not the chefs who earned a good living but the restaurant owners. Ben had seen that when he’d worked in Paris and it was a fact which had been reinforced while he was working in London.
Owning his own restaurant had been his dream ever since he had left Paris, but, if he was honest, it was a dream he had never dared to envisage coming true, and now that it was on the point of doing so—more than doing so, in fact—his delight was tinged with apprehension and fear—a fear that sprang not from any lack of belief in his own talents, nor in Zoe’s, but from a lack of trust in fate to be so beneficent to him; fear of allowing himself to believe that his dream was attainable only to have it snatched back from him at the last minute.
Zoe might tease him for his caution, but Zoe had never known what it was to be denied anything. He did not resent her for that. In fact it was the confidence, the sheer bubbling confidence in herself and in life which she possessed in such abundance that had drawn him to her in the first place. But he could not change the watchful caution of a lifetime’s awareness of life’s cruelty and unfairness no matter how much he wished he was able to do so.
‘I’ve explained to Clive that we’d prefer to travel down there on our own so that we can spend a couple of days looking around and sussing out the competition. He was all for it. And I’ve booked us into a hotel.’ Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’s closer to Salisbury than Bath and advertises itself as “An exclusive country house hotel designed to provide the discerning guest with every comfort and luxury.” It’s got its own indoor pool and gym and apparently a well-recommended restaurant.’
‘It sounds gross,’ Ben told her frankly. ‘That official recommendation could be a problem, though.’
Zoe gave a small shrug. ‘Well, hopefully it will be far enough away not to be any real competition, and if Clive gets the go-ahead to buy the extra land and build a golf course…’
‘If… it’s a big if, and anyway I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to start expanding into that kind of market too soon. We don’t want to overstretch ourselves. Let’s get the restaurant established first.’
‘And the hotel,’ Zoe interrupted him.
‘The house is too small to accommodate more than three or four couples at most as it stands at present, and even then it’s going to need a lot of work on it. We shan’t be able to call it a hotel until the extension has been built and we don’t even know if we’ll be able to get planning permission for that yet.’
‘Clive has been in touch with a local architect and he hasn’t said that we won’t,’ Zoe objected.
‘No, but he hasn’t said that we will either, has he? Don’t get too excited yet, Zoe. We’ve still got a very long way to go.’
Zoe pulled a face at him.
‘Why do you always have to be such a pessimist?’
‘Because life’s safer that way. Have you told your parents yet?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘I was going to tell Ma when you were in Manchester, but by the time we’d had lunch and been shopping… She rang me this morning. She sounded a bit down; I…’
‘She probably hasn’t had her hair done this week,’ Ben interrupted her.
Zoe glared at him. ‘Ben, that isn’t fair. I was going to suggest we drive out to see her. Dad’s away on business again, but if you feel like that, I’ll go on my own.’
A little to her surprise, Ben shook his head.
‘No, I’ll come with you—or would you prefer I didn’t bother? After all, we don’t want to embarrass Mummy with my uncivilised behaviour, do we?’
When he saw her face, he made a small grimace and apologised.
‘OK, OK. I’m sorry but I can’t help it. Your parents’ life, their relationship, even that damned house—they’re all so perfect, so—so politically correct. I sometimes wonder how they managed to produce you.’
