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Here in St Lucia, the Pitons wore nature’s cloak of dappled sunlight, their lush flanks shimmering in the breeze like an emerald waterfall. At home, her view over the rain-soaked rooftops rewarded her with a forest of redundant chimney pots, twisted TV aerials and satellite dishes. London did many things superbly, but one thing St Lucia topped the index in was its laid-back lifestyle. There was no frantic commute to the office, bistro or patisserie to work harder, faster and longer until your brain was frazzled and your dreams extinguished.
As she sipped her cappuccino, sprinkled with a dash of locally cultivated nutmeg, her reverie injected a surprise pang of homesickness into her chest. She thought of Jen, getting Lola and Odette ready for school before dashing off to present a cookery demonstration at the WI or the local college or village fair. She couldn’t wait to share what she had learned so far about the intricacies of the indigenous flavours of the Caribbean with her sister.
She thought of Pippa, dressing for her shift at the patisserie, cursing as she shot down the four flights of stairs from her flat, late as usual. Luckily, Pippa was a prolific emailer and had kept her up to date with all the gossip at Café Étienne. This morning’s missive was all about a potential date with a guy from the Italian deli across the road. Millie had wished her luck and demanded a photograph, attaching her own of Zach and Henri in return. She had just read her friend’s reply but could have predicted her comments and her preference. Pippa adored men like Henri; intelligent, community-focused, clean-shaven with a strong jaw, neatly clipped hair, French Caribbean heritage – ideal boyfriend material in fact, save for the lengthy commute for dinner.
She tossed her coffee cup into the sink and helped herself to a plate of chopped tropical fruit from the fridge – mango, pineapple, melon, guava – then went out to the balcony to continue her contemplations.
It was not yet seven a.m. and already the sun was poking its face over the horizon, casting rippling fissures of pale amber and scarlet over the sea. It was beautiful and she would never grow tired of sitting on the rattan chair staring at the ever-changing panorama. At that time in the morning the air was cooler and the humidity lower – it was the best time to enjoy the peace and tranquillity, as well as the sweet aroma of jasmine floating on the gentle breeze.
She selected a slice of pineapple and allowed its sweetness to trickle slowly from her tongue down her throat – pure liquid paradise. She finished her breakfast and grabbed a quick shower before pulling on her white capri pants and strappy scarlet tee-shirt, gathering her straw-like hair into a high ponytail and trotting down the stairs to check on Fitz’s progress.
By the time she arrived on the veranda, the sun had joined the day and bathed the whole scene in a golden glow, but there was no sign of Fitz. She glanced at her watch to see it was seven-forty-five – so much for Ella’s lecture on timekeeping. She sighed. If Ella couldn’t impress upon the men to be on time, she had no additional ammunition in her own armoury.
Millie planned to spend the day as she had yesterday; triple-testing the recipes that would form the course’s itinerary. If she concentrated on two dishes each day – sourcing the ingredients, preparing the recipes, taste-testing and gauging the preparation and cooking time – then she would be finished by next Friday.
Claudia was relying on her judgement and she had asked for a daily email with her findings and recommendations. She had explained to Millie that the Paradise Cookery School courses were to be intensive week-long programmes with a variety of themes, some of which could be tailor-made to the guests’ personal preferences, like theChocolate & Confettione arranged for the following week.
Once the hotel side of things was up and running, Claudia was also planning to offer a more general course focusing on the preparation of a Caribbean-inspired starter, main meal and dessert each day. The resulting culinary masterpieces would then be consumed at a communal dinner each evening with local wine and spirits or home-made fruit punch. Each guest would be asked to score their fellow chefs out of ten, with accomplishment certificates available for those requiring them. Claudia hoped the students would take the school seriously, but Millie knew that a handful of them would be attending for the social aspects of meeting like-minded people, maybe even hoping to hook up with a potential date.
Or indulge in a holiday fling just as Jen had suggestedsheshould!
She decided to grab the bull by the horns and ring Fitz. Instead of leaving the villa via the French doors she opened the back door, stooping forward to remove one of the wooden crates that was blocking her access to the courtyard. It was heavier than she had expected. She dislodged the lid and to her surprise she saw the crate was filled with the purple-brown cocoa pods wrapped in a fresh crop of banana leaves.
Oh, God! Could she have missed them the previous day? No way, she wasn’t crazy! The boxes had definitely both been empty. She screwed up her eyes and shook her head, but she was not mistaken or hallucinating. Someone had replenished the crates.
The piercing shriek of an engine straining to ascend the incline interrupted the internal cross-examination of her sanity.
‘Hey, Millie! Good morning!’ sang Fitz in his infectious Caribbean lilt as he leapt from the cab of his rust-blistered white van, gifting her with a broad smile. That morning he had moved up in the world by ditching the self-rolled cigarette for a thick, Caribbean cigar.
Alph and Vic shouted a friendly greeting, strolled to the back of the vehicle, and prised open the double doors. Flakes of rust dribbled from the lock and hinges like dried blood. Vic extracted the largest stereo radio Millie had ever seen, liberally doused in lumps of plaster and splashes of paint, and carried it on his shoulder to the veranda at the front of the villa.
Millie resisted the temptation to check her watch but she knew it was well past eight o’clock. She forced a smile on her lips and followed the trio to the veranda where they deposited their canvas tool bags before carrying their lunch pails into the kitchen.
‘Man, you can never get tired of this view, eh?’ said Fitz, his hands on his hips, stretching out his back muscles as though he had just rolled out of bed. He probably had, thought Millie with a jolt of annoyance.
‘True. I’ll get the coffee brewing, shall I?’
Millie made a swift getaway as she suspected Fitz was about to launch into an unprovoked monologue on the myriad benefits of St Lucia over London, Paris and that twenty-four-hour metropolis, New York. It was his favourite specialised subject and she had heard the lecture twice already. She refused to give them any reason to delay their day any further.
All three men possessed that laid-back vibe, which they had clearly honed to perfection over the years, and nothing and no one could hurry them along. She wished she could bottle just a smidgeon of that stress-free lifestyle and smuggle it back to London where most of the time she felt frazzled and exhausted. She prayed that, despite their attitude to timekeeping, their workmanship would be up to scratch.
She tossed a handful of coffee beans into the grinder and set a cafetière and three sturdy mugs on a tray. She didn’t have to be a clairvoyant to predict that these items of crockery would be well used over the next two weeks. Carrying the tray from her studio across to the villa, she found the men congregated round a cardboard box, scoffing thick jerk-chicken sandwiches and chuckling about the exploits of someone called Jacques like a trio of fishwives.
She set the tray down and gave the gang what she hoped was a meaningful stare. ‘Claudia really needs the kitchen to be ready for her inspection on the sixteenth. There seems to be a lot to do so I’ll let you get started.’
‘Chill, man. We are craftsmen, artisans. You can’t hurry perfection. Did Leonardo da Vinci rush to finish theMona Lisa? Did Michelangelo rush to finish the Sistine Chapel? No. They were allowed to take their time to express their creativity. Don’t worry, Millie. Be happy!’
‘Right, well, I agree that creativity is important, and Claudiaiskeen that everything in the kitchen is finished to an ultra-high standard. But equally as important is delivering on time, because if she has to cancel theChocolate & Confetticlasses, the Paradise Cookery School might never get off the ground. I don’t think Ella will be very happy if her dream to become a cookery-school demonstrator is dashed because the sinks aren’t fitted, do you?’
Millie’s heart hammered painfully against her ribcage and her cheeks had flooded with heat, but she felt a surge of elation at the assertiveness she had displayed. She left the kitchen and strode down to the pool, inhaling deep, rejuvenating breaths when she knew she was out of sight of the men.
The sun had climbed mercilessly in the clear azure sky, sending the temperature on a steep uphill trajectory. Even in the shade of the leafy canopy around the pool terrace, the air was thick and oppressive. The humidity pressed into Millie’s chest, robbing her of a clear draw of breath, until relief flooded her veins when the rhythmic beat of calypso was accompanied by the sound of a hammer and circular saw.
Millie made a decision.
It was time to take a closer look at the cocoa pods which, if Claudia had her way, would form part of the ethos and branding for the Paradise Cookery School. She headed back to the front door step, selected a couple of the strange looking pods from the top crate, and carried them towards her studio like precious cargo.
‘Hey, where do you think you’re tiptoeing off to with those?’
