Luc grunted under his breath. ‘I can imagine.’
‘I’m not sure I want to deal with someone like that, to be honest.’ Although beggars couldn’t be choosers.
‘Let me see what I can do,’ said Luc, a grim set to his jaw. ‘It might just be a communication problem.’
‘Mm,’ said Hattie doubtfully. Juliet Garnier’s English had sounded pretty good to her.
‘Put her number into my phone. I’ll call her now.’
The call went through and Hattie heard Juliet’s voice again. Though the French was too quick for her to try and translate, it was quickly obvious as the conversation degenerated from polite chat to curt short terse sentences that Luc wasn’t having any success.
His jaw jutted out as he finished the call.
‘No joy?’
‘Sorry. She was adamant she couldn’t help.’ There was an angry tic in his cheek.
‘Hey, Luc, it’s not your problem.’ Hattie touched him on the arm. ‘I really appreciate that you tried.’
When they began to stroll through the market a little while later, Hattie quickly forgot her problems. Everywhere she looked, stalls burst with colour and texture, the rich red of tomatoes tumbling over each other in wooden boxes, piles of green beans like spindly fingers in big baskets, and sacks of golden potatoes still spattered with dark mud. The smell of crepes filled the air from a busy stand with a ten-deep queue of shopping-laden women. She was finding it difficult to concentrate on any one thing, like the display of fresh herbs or the table of shelled and unshelled nuts. Her eyes were constantly drawn to the sharp, bright discovery of a new stall. Just as she picked up a bottle of rosemary vinegar her phone began to ring. She closed her eyes. Seriously. Not again. She looked down at her phone and was pleasantly surprised to see it was someone else.
‘Oh! Will you excuse me a minute?’
‘Sure, why don’t you catch me up.’
Watching him go, she turned and took a few steps back towards the much-depleted boulangerie stall, answering the phone excitedly.
English people didn’t tend to eat well in his experience, thought Luc, selecting some shiny red onions, lush deep red peppers and somemachelettuce, the small green leaves quivering when he picked up the bunch. He handed them to the stallholder, an elderly woman he recognised. She’d been a regular fixture here since he was a boy. What if Hattie lived on baked beans and bacon and only ate that horrible sliced white bread that seemed so ubiquitous in English supermarkets? He never minded spending time cooking because he loved food. Marthe and Solange had taught him a lot when he was in his teens. The kitchen at the château had always smelled good. On Sundays there’d be the rich fragrance of the beef in thepot au feububbling on the range; during the week there’d be a potage of whatever vegetables were in season simmering away; and always, always a large rustic loaf on the table, the scent of wheat and yeast permeating the air and a sharp knife at the ready to cut through the crisp crust.
It had been a long time since the château kitchen had been alive with that sense of warmth and hospitality. Anyone could have turned up and they would always have been fed.
Tonight he’d make a simplematafanwith bacon and fresh chives. There were still, he’d noticed, an abundance of potted herbs on the patio outside the kitchen and there was a basket of eggs in the kitchen.
When Hattie caught up with him as he was at the cheese stall, trying to decide which to choose, her face fizzed with smug delight that made her hazel eyes glow.
‘Hi Luc. Strange question—’
‘Hattie, come try this cheese.’
The woman behind the stall was already slicing a piece and holding it out to Hattie. He wanted to laugh at her wary expression when she took the cheese.
‘This is a local sheep’s cheese,’ said Luc. ‘It’s one of my favourites. It’s very mild. What do you think? Or do you prefer a stronger cheese?’
‘Luc, I—’
‘Cheese first,’ he said. Anything else could wait. For the next few minutes, he insisted she tasted several different types. Food came first in France. These Brits were too impatient, they didn’t know how to savour things and to take time to enjoy the good things in life.
It was fun watching her expression as she tried each one, tilting her head this way and that as she examined the flavours. He found himself looking at her mouth, his gaze drawn to her lips.
‘Mmm, I like that one, but Luc, I need to—’ He shook his head again and popped another slice into her mouth. As his fingers grazed her lips and her eyes widened instantly, a rush of heat flashed through him and for a brief moment, his gaze locked with hers.
He shifted it quickly to the woman behind the counter. ‘We’ll take that one and this one too, Hattie?’
She nodded, looking a little dazed.
Seconds later he took possession of a bag containing a crinkled, creamy and rather smelly Langres, an oval creamy Caprice des Dieux and a Cendre de Champagne, with a dusty grey ash rind.
‘Happy now?’ asked Hattie a little impatiently.
